


luminous beings

by kindclaws



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Co-leaders, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Found Family, Jedi!Clarke, Jedi: "you're not allowed to fall in love" Clarke: "I can't read suddenly", Mutual Pining, Raven and Clarke are best friends bc fu jroth, Senator-turned-rebel-leader!Bellamy, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, gratuitous lightsaber battles, prequel-era Star Wars but it doesn't follow the prequels plot, that one trope when one half of your otp tears a battlefield apart looking for the other half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 163,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: "This is our most desperate hour," the man in the hologram says, his dark and regal face radiating anguish. He is dressed in white from head to toe; an overcoat with a tall collar, loose sleeves that hang from his wrists as he spreads his arms wide. Glitches in the transmission pulse through his glowing, translucent silhouette and punctuate his speech with static, but in between the interference his voice rings loud and clear. "Help me, Clarke. You're my only hope."The hologram reaches out to empty air, and with a click, the recording begins once again....Prince Wells of Arkadia asks his childhood friend, now a Jedi Padawan, to protect his Senator on a high-stakes mission to the galaxy's capital to demand an end to the siege on his planet. The first time Senator Blake and Padawan Griffin meet, it doesn't exactly go well: BellamyhatesJedi, and Clarkehateshis attitude.But when their mission goes horribly wrong and pushes the galaxy to the brink of war, they realize they might have been brought together for a reason.





	1. the most desperate hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jekisawrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jekisawrites/gifts).



> This story is heavily inspired by prequel-era Star Wars, but doesn't really follow that plot. ie Bellamy is kind of Padme, I guess, but he doesn't get pregnant with twins and then die. No Star Wars characters.
> 
> I do my best to explain lore in the story or in the end-notes, but questions are very welcome. Author knows an embarrassing amount of star wars trivia.
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** No content warnings for this chapter! If you see something that you think should be warned for, let me know.

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

Two figures in tattered robes sprint towards the light at the end of the tunnel, kicking up a spray in the ankle-deep water. The smaller one stumbles on uneven ground underneath the water’s surface and is immediately hauled back up by her elbow.

“On your feet, Padawan,” the taller figure snarls.

Behind them, shouts and pounding footsteps ring out. The guards move slower, weighed down as they are by their armour and blasters, but there’s not much distance to spare. The two runaways skid to a stop at the end of the tunnel, where the flow of water opens onto a sheer drop. Clarke raises a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh bite of sunlight – her first sight of the sky in weeks. Her Master is more interested in the waterfall at their feet.

“Jump,” Anya says, her tone indicating that she’s not interested in a debate. She turns around and plants her feet at the edge of the drop as the guards approach. Her hand goes to her hip and closes around a thin metal cylinder.

“Not without you,” Clarke says, grimly retrieving her own weapon from the folds of her ragged clothing.

“It was not a suggestion,” Anya says, glaring at her student. “There is enough water at the bottom. You’ll survive.”

Bright lasers streak out of the darkness of the tunnel with shrill sounds. Clarke ignites her lightsaber just in time to deflect the first barrage of bolts into the concrete walls of the tunnel. With their silhouettes starkly visible against the bright sky behind them, and nowhere to escape but down the waterfall, they’ll be easy targets for the approaching guards.

“You’ll never sneak back in,” Clarke says desperately. “They know our faces now, they’ll be looking for you.”

Anya glowers as more blaster bolts narrowly miss them. The green beam of her lightsaber hums as it cuts through the air, blocking a shot that would have hit Clarke in the ribs.

“Jump,” she says again, her eyes as hard as stone. She grabs a fistful of Clarke’s dirty, tattered robe and pulls her over the edge of the waterfall as more bright bolts streak past them. Clarke’s limbs instinctively flail, her body making a futile effort to regain its balance on the edge of the drop. For a moment it seems they hang above the void: then the river at the bottom of the waterfall rushes up to meet them.

Clarke takes a deep breath just before she plunges into ice-cold water, but the shock of the impact forces it all out of her lungs. Bubbles trail in her wake as the current tumbles her head over heels. Her chest is burning by the time her head surfaces, some ways downstream. She crawls out onto the rocks and coughs up what feels like half the river. Her lightsaber bumps against her knee with a lap of water. She clips it back to her hip and staggers to her feet, her eyes searching the rushing water.

“Anya!” she calls hoarsely. “Master Anya!”

“Quiet. You’ll bring them all to us,” the warrior says, peering down at her from the top of the gorge they’ve fallen into. She’s limping slightly as she descends to Clarke’s level – a strip of torn cloth tied around her calf is slowly turning dark with blood. Clarke winces, thinking of how unhygienic that bandage must be.

“Let me heal that,” she says, reaching out.

“I’m fine,” Anya says brusquely. She’s always like this after a mission goes wrong. “Let’s keep moving.”

Their progress away from the fortress is hampered by the patrols flying overhead. Clarke is swaying on her feet by the time Anya finally stops in front of a rocky outcropping that looks like it recently collapsed on one side. Dusk is falling over the desert. The buzz of some distant insect stops and starts up again.

“Sit down,” Anya says, almost kindly. “I can do this part on my own.”

Clarke only shakes her head and reaches out with both hands, mirroring Anya. Her eyebrows furrow together in concentration. The pile of rocks in their way trembles, knocking pebbles and dust loose to tumble between the cracks. Slowly, they raise the massive rocks into the air and toss them to the side, exposing a shadowed cavern just behind the landslide. Inside, their starship lies silent and cold, hidden away all this time. The ramp falls open at Anya’s touch and Clarke drags her exhausted body up into the ship’s belly.

She feels only a little guilty for the wave of relief when she finds a bottle of water and a clean cloth in her bunk. There will be a time for a proper shower later, but for now she settles for scrubbing at her face with the damp cloth. The weeks of dirt and despair come away. She folds the dirty cloth with a grimace and reaches for the communicator she left on her pillow. It blinks with an unopened message.

Clarke presses the button and smiles at the hologram that opens in her palm.

Moments later, the dirty cloth falls out of her limp fingers onto the floor.

“Anya!” Clarke calls, her bare, sandy feet skidding across the metal floor as she rounds the corner at top speed. “Anya, we have to go _right now_.”

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

"This is our most desperate hour," the man in the hologram says, his dark and regal face radiating anguish. He is dressed in white from head to toe; an overcoat with a tall collar, loose sleeves that hang from his wrists as he spreads his arms wide. Glitches in the transmission pulse through his glowing, translucent silhouette and punctuate his speech with static, but in between the interference his voice rings loud and clear. "Help me, Clarke," the man begs. "You're my only hope."

The hologram reaches out to empty air, and with a click, the recording begins once again. The hall is silent but for his voice. Five steps behind the projector, Clarke is desperately hoping that her racing heart is not as obvious to everyone else as it is to her.

"He asked for me. Me, specifically," she repeats stubbornly, the same argument she made several minutes ago when she stormed into the hall. She keeps her voice subdued this time, knowing she has to appear calm. Quiet, but stubborn.

"Are you sure you will be able to keep your emotions from clouding your judgement?"

"I think my familiarity with Arkadia will be an advantage in the investigation, not an obstacle," Clarke says. Her voice feels as though it is coming from far away, from a stranger's lungs. She listens to static and swallows the hard lump of fear lodged high in her throat. She feels breathless, dazed, despite the deliberate effort she's making to rein in her emotions. The moment stretches long enough that she begins to brace for a no, and starts planning how to defy orders anyway. She'll need to contact Raven, and then -

"Very well," Anya allows, the first time she has spoken in the entire debate. Clarke lets herself exhale. It rattles in her chest, somewhere in the vicinity of her traitorous pounding heart. "We will go observe the situation together."

"Thank you," Clarke says, bowing her head as the figure stands. A thin braid slips off her shoulder and hangs in her field of view before she straightens. They are halfway to the door when they call out for her one more time.

"Padawan!"

Clarke turns even though every fiber of her being tells her there's no time left to waste.

"Yes?" she asks, voice breathless.

"Try not to start a war."

 _As if I needed telling_ , Clarke thinks bitterly, and tries to swallow that thought down before anyone can pluck it out of her mind.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

The outskirts of Coronet City have been burning since yesterday's dusk.

Bellamy stands at the window, overlooking the wilting plants in the palace gardens. When he first came to the palace for the final stage of his political apprenticeship, three years ago, the gardens were in full bloom, a year-round riot of colour tended to by diligent gardeners who always had a smile and a few words for him. But Wells sent all non-essential personnel home to their families months ago. No one said it out loud, but Bellamy knows they were all thinking it might be the last goodbye. The gardens have stood empty since then, the plants slowly yellowing and curling in on themselves... until last night. The first refugees from outside the city walls started streaming in just past midnight, many of them covered in ash and begging for news of loved ones. Bellamy is old enough to remember the last time his planet was under siege, and the distant, hardened look in some of the refugees' eyes is uncomfortably familiar.

The door opens behind him, but Bellamy doesn't move from the window, still gazing at the vivid patchwork of tents in the garden.

"Your Highness," the new arrival says. "A ship has just entered the atmosphere with a few drones in pursuit. It was moving fast, but we think it was a Jedi T-6 shuttle."

"Thank you, Major-General Monroe," Wells says, his voice hoarse but still impossibly patient. "Deploy a few fighters to escort them in. They're free to engage if the Jedi can't shake off the drones, but I don't think that'll be necessary. They'll be here soon."

Bellamy keeps staring out the window until he hears the heavy wooden door close behind Monroe again. The room is silent but for the indecipherable murmurs coming from Miller's headset and the rhythmic click-click as he methodically takes apart his blaster and cleans each piece. Bellamy turns and meets his eyes. They say nothing, but Miller nods. The obvious display of weaponry is a little less subtle than Bellamy usually goes for, but he can't say he blames him. They're all scared and angry. Some of them are just more obvious about it than others.

Wells is in the center of the room, pouring tea into four dainty cups and passing his palm over each in turn as he murmurs a blessing. He looks remarkably put-together for a man that has been averaging three or four hours of sleep per night for weeks at a time. He and Bellamy were up all night settling the most injured and vulnerable into the palace's guest wings and looking for spare linens to set up makeshift tents for the rest in the gardens. They'll need to find more permanent shelter for them soon, especially if the wind keeps blowing the ash straight into Coronet City, but every safehouse and soup kitchen that Bellamy knows of is straining beyond its limits.

"You have a lot of confidence in the Jedi," Bellamy says. He's careful to keep his voice neutral, but Wells looks up from the tea set and gives him a wry look all the same.

"I'm optimistic about the influence they could have on negotiations," he says without missing a single beat. It's a politician's answer.

Bellamy wets his dry, cracked lips.

"It's been three months," he says, a faint note of desperation seeping in despite his efforts. "Forgive me for thinking it's too little, too late."

"I would rather have their help now than never at all," Wells says.

Monroe bursts back into the room just in time to prevent an argument that has repeated three times today.

"We've confirmed it's a T-6," she says, breathless. Her face is shining with hope - and it's funny, it's been so long that Bellamy almost forgot how to recognize it. "No drones on its tail. It'll be here in the next five minutes."

He instinctively looks out the window. A pinprick of gray appears on the darkness, dodging columns of smoke and making its way straight for the palace. It's followed by three Arkadian starfighters who maintain a polite distance - a formality, more than anything. Bellamy can't help the fear that makes his shoulders stiffen. He was just a child during the first blockade, but he remembers the bombing runs, the overhead shriek of starcraft. He still ducks when a bird's shadow passes over him unexpectedly.

"Send them here," Wells says, his voice louder and more commanding. Bellamy knows, without looking, that he is straightening his tired shoulders and raising his chin high, wreathing himself in the taught and practiced postures of a royal. Miller punctuates it with a loud snap that echos through the room as his magazine clicks into place. "Miller, please holster that. Bellamy - "

"I promise to play nice," he interrupts.

Wells blinks at him.

"I was going to ask you to sit," he says diplomatically. "You look exhausted."

"So do you," Bellamy responds, raising his eyebrows, and determinedly turns back to face the window. He'll rest when Wells does. Bellamy did not fight tooth and nail for his post to do anything less than the best for his planet. Until then, he's well aware what the cost of their work is. Neither of them have slept a wink since the first missiles hit. He closes his eyes, and breathes. In, and out. For a moment he swears someone is breathing next to him, her long hair tickling his arm, her inhalations slow and deliberate. Bellamy opens his eyes, and the empty space at his side feels lonelier than ever. He resolutely clears his mind. His name is Bellamy Blake. He has nothing to hide.

The door opens again. In the reflection of the window, he can see the two figures who have followed Monroe inside. They are perfectly framed between two dark gray smudges of smoke on the horizon.

"It's good to see you again, your Highness," an unfamiliar female voice says. Her voice is low, rumbling, hoarser than Wells' even though she probably hasn't been shouting directions and breathing in a haze of smoke all day.

"And you as well, Jedi Master Anya," Wells says smoothly. Bellamy is still angry at him for refusing to let Miller step in as his decoy, as he's done in a few other dangerous encounters, lately, but Wells has been getting increasingly impatient with their paranoia. Bellamy let him win this battle only because Wells insisted he already knew who the Jedi Order would send. And it looks like he was right.

Bellamy turns towards them at last, subtly scrutinizing the lithe Togruta warrior and the blonde human that's patiently standing at her side. Both of them are dressed in beige and brown tunics, the lightsaber hilts hanging on their belts making them unmistakably Jedi. Anya's Padawan is staring at Wells with an intensity that usually has Bellamy calling for security, but her face is relieved and yearning rather than hostile. It's the first time Bellamy is seeing Clarke Griffin in person, but he's heard enough about her. For a fleeting moment, he feels sorry for her and Wells, for going through this formal charade while pretending they're not best friends who have been separated for a year.

"I wish this meeting were under better circumstances," Wells continues, echoing Bellamy's thoughts. "You haven't met my new Senator yet. This is Bellamy Blake."

Bellamy makes no effort to move away from the window, no indication at all that his name has been said. Instead, one of Wells' aides steps forward and extends his hand, politely exchanging pleasantries with the Jedi. Anya's attention slips smoothly from Wells to the aide as they shake hands, but her Padawan frowns. Bellamy knows he is a very good liar. It's the years of practice that stop him from stiffening up and giving the act away as Clarke Griffin's gaze flickers between the aide standing in front of her and Bellamy. Her eyes are blue and piercing even from across the room. Bellamy finds himself breathless, caught in the moment as his stomach drops, and hates her for it. It must be a Jedi trick, this sensation of vertigo, as though the world is falling away and he can't escape her field of view.

A moment passes. The aide has had his hand outstretched in front of Clarke for a little longer than is comfortable. Anya discreetly nudges her Padawan, who shakes her head firmly.

"Wells," Clarke says. Bellamy starts breathing again as soon as her steely, terrifyingly intense focus slips away from him. "Your senator is not who he says he is."

The aide stammers the stirrings of an arguments that convinces no one. Anya's forehead markings raise as Clarke's eyebrows furrow into an even deeper frown. Bellamy finally steps away from the window and takes his time strolling towards them, his hands clasped behind his back in the picture of nonchalance.

"Thank you. You may go," Bellamy tells the aide, and pays him no further attention as the door shuts behind him. A smile betrays the corners of Wells' mouth.

"It was not my idea," he admits.

"Is there a reason you're trying to trick us?" Clarke asks, her voice as icy as Hoth.

"I wanted an outsider's perspective on your arrival," Bellamy says calmly, refusing to let her make him feel bad. "There are so many rumours flying around about the Jedi that I thought some personal observations could improve my understanding of your ways. No hard feelings, I hope."

"Who _are_ you?" Clarke asks, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You have better mental shielding than half of the Jedi Knights I've met - "

"Clarke," Anya says, more than a hint of warning in her voice. Clarke falls back at once, quiet and sullen as she regards Bellamy from behind her Master's back. "We should get back to the mission. Prince Wells, we received your message yesterday. How did you send it if there haven't been any outgoing transmissions getting past the blockade for weeks?"

"It was a complex operation," Wells says with a thin, secretive smile that plainly says he doesn't intend to explain. Bellamy doesn't even dare to blink, but Clarke's attention has shifted to Wells, and she doesn't seem to notice anything. Anya narrows her eyes, but apparently decides not to push the issue.

"The Order is worried about your planet's silence," she says instead.

"You should be," Bellamy snaps, even as he catches Wells giving him a look out of the corner of his eye. "Azgeda has us under siege. We've been trying to get someone's attention for _three months_."

"The Jedi Order is bound by the decisions of the Senate unless we can prove - " Anya begins.

"Our people are starving," Bellamy says, cutting off whatever useless Jedi platitudes she might have been about to give. "We're no strangers to rationing, but there just isn't enough food and medical supplies getting past Azgeda's blockade. Our off-world bank accounts will run out soon, and we'll have nothing left to pay the smugglers with. The previous Senator might not have been competent enough to convince the Senate of the gravity of our situation, but I am not going to make that mistake. You're three months late. We're dying. They started dropping missiles last night."

"The Order is not your enemy," Clarke says, glaring at him.

"Convince me," Bellamy all but growls.

"Enough!" Wells says, throwing his palms up and drowning out whatever sharp reply Anya had been about to make. Bellamy turns to him, suddenly sheepish. He's made no secret of his opinions to his prince, but he promised to play nice only minutes ago. Wells looks each of them in the eye and slowly lowers his arms. "You're here now," he says to Anya. "And we're all hoping we can come to an agreement with Azgeda soon. Come. The tea's getting cold."

It is, admittedly, much harder to argue with someone when your mouth is full of tea, but Clarke manages to give Bellamy an admirably frigid glare over the rim of her cup. Bellamy drinks his tea slowly, trying to savour the rare luxury even though it is bitter and diluted. It's been a while since they've treated themselves to something as simple as tea. He can almost feel Clarke's attention boring into him, and does his best to ignore her. He thinks about tea. He thinks about walking through Arkadia's forests, before the blockade, before the fires, and about the perfect silence of sunlight streaming through leaves. His mind is blank. He is as formless as water. He leaves nothing in his surface thoughts for a Jedi to grab onto or pry apart.

He does not think about the blockades. 

He does not think about the sound of distant laughter.

He does not think about a tiny vessel vanishing into a bright blue sky.

Wells pulls up a hologram of the typography surrounding Coronet City, and Bellamy feels Clarke's attention shift away from him at last. He takes deep breaths to relax, lets Wells' familiar voice wash over him as he points out all the sites Azgeda has dropped bombs on. They've been getting steadily closer to major urban centers. Bellamy is afraid they're herding his people on purpose, gathering them together for something more dangerous.

"They're trying to intimidate you into signing the treaty," Anya says, a quiet fury brewing behind her eyes.

"Neither Senator Blake nor I are willing to do that," Wells says firmly. "It might buy us peace in the short-term, but if we give in now Arkadia will just starve slower. We survived the siege eighteen years ago and we'll survive this one too."

"What's still open for debate is how many sentient lives the Senate is willing to sacrifice while it argues," Bellamy says.

"With a temper like yours, you could probably sway a few systems over to your side," Clarke mutters. He thinks it might be a compliment, a peace offering, but he's too tense and exhausted to smile.

"That's not a bad idea," Anya says, nodding slowly as she thinks through some plan. "You get Senator Blake through the blockade, take him to Coruscant to hurry the Senate along. Prince Wells and I pretend to open negotiations with Azgeda and start drafting another treaty to buy you some time."

"You're counting on the Senate to come through?" Bellamy asks. The back of his neck prickles as Anya turns the force of her attention on him.

"That's up to you and your skill, isn't it, Senator?" she asks slyly. He bites back several rude replies to that.

"Master," Clarke says urgently, laying a hand on Anya's roughspun tunic. Her voice suddenly sounds younger than it did when she was glowering up at Bellamy. "Master, are you suggesting we split up?"

Anya's face unexpectedly softens as she rests her hand over Clarke's, and Bellamy feels like he's intruding on a moment not meant for his eyes. He averts his gaze and stares instead at the dark brown wool of their Jedi robes. He feels itchy just looking at the rough material, and...

"I've taught you almost everything I know, Clarke," Anya says gravely. "Your Trials will come sooner than you think. It's time for you to become comfortable with being far away from me."

Clarke straightens up and nods sharply, but that furrow between her eyebrows is back again, deeper than ever. And Bellamy's the son of a seamstress. He narrows his eyes at two tiny, almost invisible sets of stitches just under Clarke's ribs, where someone very talented has done an excellent job of repairing the blaster holes. His eyes flicker up to scan her face. He wonders how long ago she was shot at. How much it hurt. If it scarred, or if Jedi healing is somehow above such mundane things.

"I can do it," she says. "I will escort Senator Blake to Coruscant and protect him with my life." That last part is directed towards Wells.

"I've got a guard already," Bellamy says, mostly just to be difficult.

"You're a fool if you think you'll be safe once you've arrived in the Senate," Clarke says, eyes hard.

Bellamy doesn't get a chance to respond. The only warning they get is a high-pitched shrieking sound, before the ground rumbles beneath their seats and the tea cups rattle violently on their saucers. Miller's hands are already on Bellamy's shoulders, ready to pull him out of danger, but he bats them away and goes to the window. He can hear the refugees out in the garden crying out in alarm.

There is a new column of smoke on the city's doorstep, the closest one yet. Bright orange flames are licking at the buildings, the trees that line their beautiful boulevards. Bellamy imagines homes and schools and marketplaces turned into kindling. His fists are shaking at his sides, coiled tight with an anger he doesn't dare let loose.

"We can't waste any more time," he says. He looks for Wells, as always, waits for the nod.

"Pack your things, then," Clarke says. "Wells - can we speak?"

Bellamy spins on his heel and marches away from the window, not waiting for any further conversation. Miller falls into step with him before he's even opened the doors. They say nothing as they walk to Bellamy's quarters, not even a single glance shared between them as Miller maneuvers them down abandoned corridors and past shattered windows. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Bellamy lets his shoulders slump with all the exhaustion he's been fighting back.

"Can I do this?" he asks Miller, his voice sounding hollow without the usual bravado he puts forward. "Can I change the Senate's mind, or have I doomed us all to Azgeda?"

"You must be really desperate if you're asking me," Miller says after a moment of just opening and closing his mouth. He gestures towards Bellamy's closet with one hand. "Look, just start packing."

"You're right," Bellamy mutters. "I should know better than to ask Nathan Miller for a pep talk."

He starts rooting through his closet, forcing himself to actually look at the choices instead of picking the first thing his hand rests on. Formal dress is an easier asteroid field to navigate as a masculine senator than a feminine one, but not by much. The Senate is a stage as much as it is a court, and Bellamy's been taught that some of the other representatives will be shallow enough to base their decisions on his presentation rather than the facts of his case. Knowing that, does he go for the jacket with the sharp creases and the militaristic cut, trying to portray Arkadia as a formidable adversary? Or should he be playing the sympathy card, trying to force the Senate to empathize with his desperate people? He's wary of appearing too weak in front of them, especially since it'll be his first appearance on Coruscant since he was elected just weeks ago.

"Just pick something, how hard can it be?" Miller says.

"Wouldn't you like to know..." Bellamy murmurs, still sweeping a critical eye over his wardrobe. He sighs and decides this isn't a choice that should be made under pressure. The militaristic jacket goes into a bag, as do a few other options he'll be able to consider later.

"Bellamy," Miller says as his back as turned. "I really do think you can do it." His voice always sounds serious to an untrained ear, but Bellamy knows his best friend and bodyguard well. He knows he means it, on a different level. Bellamy rubs at his sore, exhausted eyes.

"I'll have to be enough," he says simply. He hoists the bag over his shoulder and goes to his desk to fetch his datapad. His thumb brushes the power button as he picks it up and the screen brightens with the last file he was reading: Mandalore's royal family. At the very bottom, there is a tiny rectangle labeled Clarke Griffin. Bellamy stares at her name for a second longer than he should. It has been a very long few days, and his reflexes are slower than a three-legged bantha. He shakes his head, pushing the blonde Padawan out of his mind. "I'm ready to go," he tells Miller as he zips up his bag. Miller blinks at him tiredly and peels himself off the wall he's been leaning on. They walk to the palace's private hangar bay in silence.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

As soon as that irate new Senator goes off to pack his things, Clarke grabs Wells' arm and gently tugs him away from Anya and the others.

"Can we speak?" she asks, and Wells catches on instantly and leads her to a secluded side room. The dusty yellow light filtering in through the window makes him look sicker and sallower than he must already feel. "I'm - I'm _so sorry_."

Wells' head jerks up.

"For what?" he asks. "You're here now - "

"Three months late," Clarke says, her fingers clenching into fists. "Your Senator is right, this is completely unacceptable. Anya and I were undercover in the Outer Rim with no Holonet access, and when I found out she refused to let me come straight here. We had to appeal to the Council first, and then the Senate, and then the Council again - "

"I don't blame you," Wells says, pulling her into a hug just as she bursts into tears. "I don't blame you," he repeats into her hair. "I know you would have come."

"Three months," Clarke whispers into his shoulder, her voice cracking. "You've been doing this for three months on your own."

"I wasn't alone," Wells mumbles into her hair, but she doesn't miss the way his hands desperately clutch fistfuls of her robes. "I had Bellamy, and Monroe, and..."

"And now you have me."

Clarke pulls out of the hug and wipes furiously at her damp eyes. Out of view of her Master, Clarke feels no shame in such a brazen display of emotion, but she can't get carried away and let herself walk out of this room with red eyes. She reaches out for a moment with her mind, finding Anya's Force signature in the next room as easily as breathing. Just reaching out for her and brushing her familiar presence is enough to help Clarke pull herself together.

"How are you really?" she asks. Wells holds fast for another few seconds before his face crumples and his shoulders slump. Clarke bites her lip as Wells' hands come up and cover his face.

"I don't know," Wells says. He is 20 standard years old and he has been doing this for an eternity. Clarke can't imagine something more terrible than watching your kingdom starve all around you. Arkadia doesn't belong to her the way it belongs to Wells, not quite, but she considers it as much a home as she is allowed to, as a Jedi. Until this year, she and Wells divided their summers between Arkadia and Mandalore, and their planets have been allies for generations. "Clarke, I don't know why they still believe in me. There are fewer and fewer smugglers willing to run the blockade, and if Azgeda doesn't back off soon we won't have any more on-world funds to pay them with. There's not enough food and medicine as it is. We've even - you know how much I hate it - we've even talked about bringing back the One Child Policy."

Clarke's face twists with pain and distaste of its own accord.

"Oh Wells, I'm so sorry," she says, even as she's pushing him to sit in a chair and rest, even for a moment. The infamous One Child Policy was implemented during the last blockade, and it was lifted years ago, but the scars still remain. Clarke knows Wells has always wanted to be an older brother, but even the royal family had to follow the law, and Wells' mother died before she and Thelonious Jaha could have the second child they'd wanted so badly. That Wells is even remotely considering reinstating the policy shows how dire the blockade is. "I want to promise that we're going to fix this, that it won't come to that..."

"Bellamy wouldn't let me," Wells chuckles wryly, looking down at his hands. "He has a grudge against most of our past policies, but he hates that one especially."

Clarke makes a face.

"He's not what I'd expect... from a politician," she says, trying to phrase it diplomatically. She makes a point of interacting with the Senate as little as possible, but in her experience many Senators are sweet-talking and shallow, and they feel elusive and dishonest in the Force. She's never met one with a temper like his. She's half-afraid that Blake will stride into the Senate Chambers already yelling at them for their incompetence and get them kicked out before they can even make a case for Arkadia's freedom.

"That's why we chose him," Wells says simply. He reaches for her hand and squeezes gently. "Clarke. If this fails - "

"It can't," Clarke says, shaking her head. Her throat feels tight again, and she reaches again for the Force, for a lifetime of training to calm herself. She's not a youngling anymore and she hasn't had so much trouble centering herself in years, but Arkadia feels like a wound scraping at the edges of her mind, hardly given time to heal before it's torn again. "We can't fail."

"We might," Wells says. "The Senate is hard to move. We might fail, and you can't blame yourself for it. Just... do your best. Keep Bellamy safe."

"I will," Clarke says. She wants to say more - something reassuring perhaps, something to smooth out the harsh lines of worry in his forehead, something to make him smile even for just a moment. But Anya wordlessly nudges at the edges of her mind, gently tugging on the golden Force between them. She looks towards the closed door, and Wells stands before she says anything. Her hand feels colder when he lets go.

"Just do your best," Wells says again, faintly. Clarke forces herself to walk out.

She keeps a brave face until she's standing right in front of her Master. The turmoil of seeing Wells for the first time in a year almost made her forget that Anya is sending her away on her own for the first time - that too, is an ordeal. Clarke drinks in the sight of her familiar face, the warpaint, the lekku that frame her sharp cheekbones. Anya's face remains outwardly impassive, but she softens in the Force.

"You're ready for this," she tells Clarke, almost dismissively. Anya's always been a little awkward when it comes to anything approaching encouragement, or affection. But this, this is close. "You have been for a while. Do your meditations in the morning and I shall have no complaints. Now go."

Clarke wants to hug her, Jedi rules be damned. But Anya already turned a blind eye to her obvious distress over Wells, so Clarke takes a step backwards even though her whole being is aching to step forwards instead. There's only so much she can push and pull at the strict borders of Jedi tradition.

(Years from now, she will wish she had pushed.)

Instead she turns her back and steps onto the shuttle. The ramp swings upwards and shuts behind her, leaving her eyes to adjust to the cabin's dim lighting. Senator Blake and Miller are already strapping into two seats just behind the cockpit. Clarke catches Miller's eye as she walks past and gives him a tiny nod. It's good to see him again.

She goes through the pre-flight checks like a puppet being jerked on distant strings, half expecting that any moment Anya will walk in and say it was just a test to see if she'd be willing to separate. But the engines are running smoothly and Clarke's hand settles on the throttle with no interruptions. She takes a deep breath, and forces herself to push it. The shuttle takes off with a quiet whine and they shoot across Arkadia's burning, smoky landscape. She doesn't let herself stop and look, or circle around for one last glimpse of the palace. She steers the ship towards the heavens and steels herself.

Above the atmosphere, Azgeda's star destroyers are waiting. Clarke narrows her eyes as several of the nearest ships menacingly turn their tapered noses towards her shuttle. She's always thought Azgedan spacecraft looks shark-like, and they feel especially predatory now. Perhaps it's a good thing that Jedi shuttles don't come equipped with any weaponry, because the anger that blazes through her at the sight of the blockade threatens to cloud her sense of consequences.

The Senate will take ages to debate a resolution, she knows. But there's nothing she can do to end the blockade here, even though she's aching to smash those ships together.

"We'll be back," she promises the cold, hungry destroyers. And then she punches the shuttle into hyperdrive. Stars streak past, leaving long light trails beyond the windshield as the pitch of the engines climbs higher. Clarke blinks back tears as the last echos of Anya and Wells in the Force fade from her reach. She takes a moment to double check the navigation computer's calculations and compose herself, and then unbuckles to check on her passengers.

The Senator has a datapad open on his lap and what looks like a screen of tiny, dense text. Miller, meanwhile, is already unbuckling and eyeing the bunk on the other side of the cabin.

"Go for it," Clarke tells him. "It'll be a few hours until we reach Coruscant. You need the sleep more than I do."

"Can't argue with that," Miller says. He sits down and starts unlacing his boots. His gun is still in reach. Clarke eyes it with vague curiosity and decides not to say anything. "Bellamy?"

The Senator looks up to find two pairs of eyes on him.

"Yes?" he says, blinking owlishly.

"Are you planning on staying up forever?" Miller asks him.

"Just until I'm done making a case for the Senate," Bellamy says, lifting the datapad slightly. "I'm still not sure what sort of approach will sway them best."

"You should sleep," Clarke frowns. "You have circles under your eyes so dark it looks like you've been punched."

"Charmed," Bellamy drawls, his jaw twitching as he stares at some point beyond her head. "I'm an adult under no obligation to take orders from you, so I'll stay here, thank you."

"You really should sleep," Clarke says. "If it's nervousness keeping you up, I can help with that."

She reaches her hand out towards his forehead, only meaning to give the Force a gentle suggestion to relax his mind, but he catches her wrist with an iron grip and stares at her with wide, furious eyes.

"Don't," he says, and the temperature of the cabin drops several degrees. Neither of them move.

"If you two are going to be like that this whole trip, I swear..." Miller's voice trails off into an inaudible mumble as he turns right around on his bunk, his back to them.

"Don't ever try that again," Bellamy hisses. "I don't want you anywhere near my head."

Clarke jerks her arm out of Bellamy's grip and gives him a frosty glare of her own.

"Fine," Clarke says tightly. "I promised Wells I'd keep you safe, but if you're stupid enough to deny yourself basic biological needs until you drop, that's not my problem."

She spins on her heel and stalks back into the cockpit. She hears Miller whistle at her departure but blocks out whatever reply Bellamy makes to him.

Clarke should have asked. She can't fathom going back now and apologizing to Bellamy for using the Force like that without his permission, even if she knows Anya would approve. Honestly, she's not used to being around people who are neither Force-sensitive nor hostile, but even so she should have known better. He certainly doesn't have to be such an asshole about it though, acting like Jedi are something disgusting he can't bear to be near.

She gives a rattling, tired sigh and curls up in the pilot's seat, her knees drawn up to her chest. She watches stars stream by in hyperdrive until her vision blurs and tries not to miss her Master too much.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star wars canon has a race called the [Arkanians](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Arkanian/Legends) who are apparently huge assholes. They are totally and completely unrelated to the Arkadians. Arkadia is a made up planet - there will be a mix of canonical Star Wars planets and repurposed The 100 locations. [Coruscant](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Coruscant) is the shiny city planet where all the political drama happens. [Zygerria](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Zygerria) is Star Wars canon, but you may be able to infer spoilers if you read up on it.
> 
> Anya is a [Togruta](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Togruta), bc I wanted to keep her facial markings and the shape of her hair somehow, and I really love Togrutas. Lekku refers to her horn/tentacle head things.
> 
> [Star Destroyers](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Star_Destroyer) are a class of big fuck-your-shit-up starships. Those big pointy triangle-y ones.
> 
> The military ranks in this fic are handwaved from a cursory reading of [Wikipedia's page on Canadian ranks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canadian_Armed_Forces_ranks_and_insignia). Important people on spaceships will be assigned a Navy rank at semi-random. Important people in ground troops will be assigned an Army rank, also at semi-random. If you have suggestions on how to improve this, I welcome them! But I'm also lazy, so. *shrug emoji*
> 
> A note on ships: Bellamy/Clarke are the major POV characters and the major endgame romantic ship of this fic. There is background Miller/Monty, Emori/Murphy, but not enough to deserve an official tag, hence this note. There are hints towards Jasper/Maya, and Raven/Zeke.  
> Raven, Miller, Jasper, and a handful of others get occasional POVs.
> 
> Lastly - this fic would not have been possible without [thefangirlingbarista](http://thefangirlingbarista.tumblr.com/). Thank you, Jess, for like, everything. You can find me on tumblr as [kindclaws](http://kindclaws.tumblr.com/) :)


	2. the youngest podrace champion in 52 years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** No major content warnings for this chapter! Let me know if you have things you'd like to be warned for.

 

**HYPERSPACE, ENROUTE TO CORUSCANT**

 

Bellamy wakes to the world shuddering violently around him. He sits up with a start, hand already going for the small blaster on his hip, and slams his head against the ceiling. He rolls away, groaning, and forces himself to stand through the throbbing in his skull.

"Everything's fine," Miller says hastily, leaping out of the chair he'd been sitting in to grab Bellamy's elbow and balance him. "We just dropped out of hyperspace."

"Sorry," Bellamy says, blinking away black spots on his vision. "I just... I thought..."

"I know," Miller says grimly. That's all they're willing to say on the matter. Bellamy glances back at the bunk he's just catapulted himself out of. He knows he didn't fall asleep there - the last thing he remembers is reading court proceedings on his datapad, forcing his tired eyelids to stay open...

"Did Clarke - " Bellamy asks quietly, gesturing vaguely at his head. He hopes Jedi don't have some kind of superhearing, but he wouldn't put it past them.

"You fell asleep reading," Miller says. "I carried you to bed. Bridal style. It was very tender. I might have even cried a few tears over your prone body."

"Thanks," Bellamy responds, deadpan. He rubs absently at the spot on his head that is still pulsing with a dull, sore pain he's sure he'll be feeling for another few days.

Miller nudges his shoulder a few steps away from the cockpit.

"You know," he says, his voice deceptively casual. "The Jedi can be powerful allies. I'm just saying, if I were the Senator of a threatened planet trying to make friends on Coruscant, I would try a little harder to hide my personal feelings."

Bellamy stops short, and nods brusquely.

"That's a good point," he says. Miller drops the subject as they enter the cockpit, and then the thought flies right out of Bellamy's aching head. He's seen Coruscant on late night Holonet dramas, just like every one else, but never in person. Images can't capture the sheer vastness of the planet. Even Miller sucks in a surprised breath, next to him. They're approaching Coruscant from the hemisphere currently cast in shadow, the sunset a glimmering, sinking glow on the far horizon, but nights on Coruscant are nothing like Arkadia's. The city is alive, and it is both horrifying and beautiful. Lights twinkle and flash in every colour imaginable beneath them, fireworks exploding in the sky in the distance, and millions of tiny airspeeders dart from skyscraper to skyscraper in a crosshatch spanning the entire globe, streaking past each other like ants. There's no vegetation left, no trace of the planet that must be buried somewhere underneath miles and miles of glass and durasteel. It's a skeleton of a planet. A bedazzled, breathtaking skeleton.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Clarke asks. Bellamy looks down at her. Her face is almost serene as she gently guides the shuttle closer to the surface. In the flickering light of huge billboards and headlights, her face is thrown into sharp shadow, her skin tinged with white-blue.

"You could call it that," he admits grudgingly, his eyes still tracing the line of her mouth and the mole above her lip. He didn't notice it earlier. He looks away, drinking in the view of Coruscant.

"That's the Jedi Temple there," Clarke says, pointing eagerly through the windshield to show the fortress standing tall over the surrounding buildings. Bellamy takes Miller's advice and says nothing. "And there's the Senate building you'll be in tomorrow."

"Not now?" Bellamy asks. "They should have quarters there for us. I've been told every Senator has an apartment reserved for them."

"The Senate won't meet until morning, and honestly," Clarke says, "I don't want to let anyone know you're on the planet until the very last minute. It'll buy Wells some more time to negotiate, and Azgeda can't assassinate you if they don't even know you're here."

"I like the sound of that," Miller says. "And we need more sleep. Bellamy barely got an hour."

"I'm fine," Bellamy says automatically, though his body still feels sluggish and worn to the bone. "Where are we staying then? Not the Jedi Temple?"

Clarke's gaze flickers to him even though he tries to keep the sharp distaste out of his voice. He braces for an intrusion on the edge of his mind, gathering his focus like he's been taught, but it never comes. He can only hope it means Clarke hasn't tried, because the alternative is that she's slipped into his thoughts so easily that he hasn't even felt her, and that is infinitely worse. He cannot imagine getting any amount of restful sleep in a building full of Force-sensitive people.

"No," Clarke says. She hesitates, and then adds, like it pains her to say it, "There are many people who work in the Temple besides Jedi. Scholars, caretakers, mechanics. We screen everyone we hire, but I wouldn't put it past the Senate to plant spies in our ranks. I can't risk someone recognizing you and word getting to the Azgedan delegation."

Bellamy feels relief wash over him.

"Do you have somewhere in mind, or should I scout out something discreet?" Miller asks.

"I have a friend," Clarke says with a smile. She says nothing more on the matter as she lands the shuttle in a dirty, mid-range public hangar and they pack up their things. Clarke dons plain brown robes that hide her lightsaber and bright hair while Miller and Bellamy turn their traveling cloaks inside out to hide Arkadia's emblem and follow her down the ramp. Clarke takes the lead, and Miller falls into line two steps behind Bellamy. Between the two of them, Bellamy feels like the filling in a very paranoid sandwich. When he voices his irritation, Miller tells him to shut up in an almost loving way.

Coruscant on foot is significantly less glamorous than it is from the air. A thick, noxious haze hangs in the air where ruptured pipes and unfinished repair work leak steam and unidentifiable oils into the street. Bellamy suspects the neighbourhood Clarke's taking them to is never frequented by Galactic Senators, and pulls his hood down further over his face as two shadowy figures down the street start to yell and stomp their feet. The taller one picks up the smaller one and throws them over their head into a dim pool of light underneath a weakly flickering lamp. Out of the shadows, Bellamy can tell the Besalisk is taking full advantage of their four arms to win. Clarke nudges him down a narrow corridor he hadn't noticed, and they circle around the fight entirely. At the foot of an alley, Bellamy startles when what he thought was a pile of trash and discarded rags scurries away at their approach.

Bellamy's childhood was by no means a wealthy or even particularly safe one, but the short walk through Coruscant's claustrophobic lower levels leaves him thinking that even a very poor standard of living on Arkadia when it's not under siege is better than being poor on the richest planet in the galaxy. He glances at Clarke to see what she thinks, remembering how much she seemed to appreciate it from air, but her forehead is furrowed in deep concentration as she sweeps the area, the jut of her elbow underneath her robes suggesting that she's got one hand on her lightsaber. He decides not to ask.

The deeper Clarke leads them into Coruscant’s underworld, the seedier and more crowded it becomes. At some point they enter what looks like a partying district. She and Miller stick close to him as stragglers leaning on the walls outside of clubs blow noxious plumes of smoke from their mouths. Doors open and slam, revealing glimpses of flashing lights and tightly-packed bodies. Laughter spills out from around corners and through the cracks around doorways.

“Are you sure you’re not lost?” Miller asks Clarke, just as Bellamy thinks the same thing.

The infuriating woman just gives them a knowing Jedi smile.

“I’m not in the mood for games, Padawan,” Bellamy says harshly as they dodge around a peddler trying to invite them to gamble on some kind of race. Up ahead they hear the harsh squeal of many engines, the sounds layered onto each other into an ear-splitting cacophony. Bellamy thinks he hears the infamous groans of an unhappy Wookie and decidedly does _not_ want to get any closer.

“Relax,” Clarke says. “We’re here.”

She steps up to a Besalisk guarding a hole torn in a chain-link fence. He narrows his eyes at their group. All four of his massive, muscular arms are crossed in front of his chest. Bellamy knows body language varies from species to species, but he thinks this is pretty universal for ‘go away.’

“I’m here for the races,” Clarke says with an easy smile at the Besalisk.

“There aren’t any races tonight,” he grunts at them, just as something behind him crashes with a reverberating thud and dozens of voices start to yell. Miller raises an eyebrow.

“It sounds like there are,” Clarke says. She flashes the shine of credits. “I’m willing to put money down, too. You could get a cut…”

“Clarke,” Bellamy hisses into her ear. “What the fuck are you leading us into?”

“No races,” the Besalisk insists. “Get lost, toothpick.”

Clarke’s face loses her friendliness. She flicks her wrist at the Besalisk’s face and says in a low, smooth voice: “You _will_ let us pass.”

Bellamy can’t suppress the shiver that goes down his spine at those words and the powerful suggestion weaved into them. His own mind goes a little fuzzy before he instinctively reaches for his mother’s meditative techniques to ground himself. The Besalisk is not so lucky: his face goes slack and distant.

“I will let you pass,” he murmurs, and gazes distractedly in a different direction as Clarke lifts up the torn portion of the fence and gestures them through.

Miller elbows him. Bellamy glares at her up until he has to duck his head to fit into the hole. On the other side, after glancing over his shoulder to make sure the Besalisk is far enough not to overhear, he steps close to Clarke.

“You messed with his mind,” Bellamy hisses. Clarke’s shoulders stiffen.

“You want to find a place to sleep as fast as possible, don’t you?” she responds archly. “The other options were a fight, a bribe, or finding another way in. Which option is most suitable for _your highness’_ moral standards?”

“Here we go again,” Miller mutters behind them both.

“Wells is royalty, I was elected,” Bellamy shoots back. “You didn’t - we could have found another way in, you didn’t have to - ” Bellamy says, reaching up to frustratedly drag his hands through his untamed hair. The movement dislodges the hood so carefully hiding his face. Both Miller and Clarke immediately move to fix that – Miller with his hands, and Clarke with the Force. Bellamy bats at his goddamn hood as it appears levitates over his head by itself. “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” he snaps. “Cut it out.”

Clarke stares at him, her face hard and annoyed.

“Wells asked me to help protect you,” she says, enunciating slowly as though speaking to a stupid child. “Miller has his training, I have mine.”

“Before anyone starts throwing hands over this – “ Miller says, shouldering his way between them. “Let’s find a compromise. Clarke, maybe you could hold off on the mind trick stuff – stop making that face at me, you have a lightsaber – and Bellamy, maybe you could accept the fact that we’re both here to keep you alive long enough to help Arkadia. Or are we going to let our feelings get in the way of saving an entire planet?”

His last words hang in the air. Bellamy’s anger leaves him all in one exhale. What remains is a sharp sense of shame that he sees reflected in Clarke’s eyes as well.

“Fine by me,” he says stiffly.

“Fine,” Clarke echoes. She seems to have a hard time dragging her glare away from his eyes, but eventually she manages it. Bellamy’s shoulders slump as she spins on one heel and marches onwards.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Miller, who just shrugs and adjusts his grip on his blaster. Even now, Miller’s face is hard for Bellamy to read. The deep, flickering shadows cast by the weak lighting over their heads doesn’t help either. They keep walking and the ebb and flow of shadows make Miller’s impenetrable face alternatively look frightening and blank.

Bellamy bumps his elbow against Miller. After a moment, Miller bumps him back, and Bellamy relaxes infinitesimally. He’s not in this mess alone – no matter what happens, what Clarke leads them into – he has Miller.

The reverb of engines and the caterwaul of disappointed gamblers drag his attention to the course at their feet. A web of netting and crates piled up to waist-height are all that divides spectators from what looks like a close race. Shadowed figures hunched over on modified airspeeders speed past in blurs, so quickly that Bellamy can’t make out the numbers and symbols painted on their backs. The netting that’s supposedly there to protect the gamblers from flying debris flutters at the rush of air the speeders leave in their wake. Bellamy eyes a hole just above his head where the net was apparently no match for a projectile and wonders if the fight he just had with Clarke means she won’t use the Force to shield him if an airspeeder goes flying at his face.

“Didn’t have you pegged for a gambler,” Bellamy says to her stiffly. Clarke gives him a sidelong look. He meets her eyes and tries to arrange his face in an expression that, while not apologetic (because he’s not at all sorry) is at least not hostile. Clarke seems to accept the truce because her own face smooths out.

“They’re coming back around,” she says, nodding as the rumble and scream of the engines grows louder. “We’re here for the Twi’lek in the front.”

Somewhere behind them, a Toydarian with a megaphone jumps from foot to foot. _Last lap_ , her scratchy voice echoes in their eardrums. Bellamy winces and leans in closer to the netting, trying to get a better glimpse.

At the very front of the pack of speeders is a lithe Twi’lek woman dressed in shades of red. Just as she comes closer the second place racer tries to jab a vibroblade into her engine and at the last moment she swerves sharply away to avoid what would have definitely turned into a massive explosion.

“Nice,” Miller says, moderately appreciative as she keeps her first place and blurs past them, the rest of the pack hanging on to her exhaust fumes.

“Is your friend going to survive long enough to help us?” Bellamy mutters. Clarke’s hands are bone-white, fisted in the netting that separates them from the race course. She relaxes them with what looks like deliberate effort.

“She’s the best,” Clarke says. “Always has been.”

Despite themselves they all watch the last lap with baited breath. Bellamy’s not a fan of racing, though he knows – no. Better not to think about that. Clarke is less than an arm’s length away from him. He tugs the edges of his hood tighter around his face and stares so intently at the leader of the race that if he could burn holes with his eyes, she’d look like Chiss cheese. The yelling of the spectators reaches a fever pitch as the racers near the finish line. Miller steps in to face the crowd, hands on his blaster, as they surge towards the netting.

“What, you think I’ll be shanked here?” Bellamy mutters to him.

“Good place for it,” is all that Miller says.

The scream of engines pushed to their breaking point drowns out the shouts of gamblers heckling their chosen racers to overtake the lead at the last minute. The Twi’lek crosses the line first and skids her speeder to a sideways halt to a riotous welcome at the far end of the crowd. Clarke smirks and steps away from the netting.

“Told you,” she says to Bellamy, who rolls his eyes and follows her weaving path through the motley spectators. The Twi’lek racer pays them no attention as they approach her from behind. She keeps her helmet tucked under one arm. Her other hand makes sharp, animated gestures at the Toydarian who apparently organized the race – after a moment, the flying alien acquiesces and hands over a bag of credits before zooming off to deal with other racers. The Twi’lek opens the bag in her lap and sifts through its contents.

When Clarke gets within two steps of her, she unhooks the blaster on her belt and points it at Clarke’s forehead without looking up from the bag. Her other hand never falters as she counts her pay. Bellamy and Miller stiffen at the same time, both of them walking faster to catch up to Clarke.

"What the fuck do you want?" the voice behind the blaster asks.

"Three things," Clarke begins pleasantly, as though there isn’t a blaster barrel pointed at her face. "A hug, some extra comlinks if you have any, and a place to crash tonight."

The blaster withdraws and the Twi’lek swings her leg off the speeder. Metal glints in the neon lighting, and she steps a little stiffly onto a prosthetic leg. The Twi’lek turns on her heel and yanks Clarke forward by the front of her robes. Her hood falls backwards with the force of the stranger's arms thrown around her neck. Bellamy and Miller exchange dubious looks. When she and Clarke pull apart from the embrace, Bellamy gets his first good look at the ‘friend’ Clarke has led them to. Her eyes are sharp and intelligent, her face proud and beautiful even though she's got a huge smudge of what might be engine grease on her forehead.

"Raven," Clarke says, one arm still slung around the stranger's waist. "These are Arkadians, friends of Wells. Senator Bellamy Blake, and his guard, Nathan Miller. Boys, this is Raven Reyes. Youngest podrace champion in 52 years."

"Yeah, yeah," Raven says, mussing Clarke's carefully braided hair with one lazy hand. “You _know_ no one cares about that sort of thing outside the Outer Rim.”

Clarke bats her hand away with an easy, teasing grin.

“I’m just repeating the way you introduced yourself to me,” she says playfully.

“I was _thirteen_ ,” Raven hisses as she grabs Clarke in a headlock. “You don’t see me making fun of _your_ attitude when you were that age – “

Miller coughs, and both girls seem to abruptly remember they’re not alone. Raven leans on one hip and extends a hand out to greet him.

"Miller, please," Miller corrects as he shakes her hand. Raven nods and turns her attention to Bellamy.

"You're a Senator, huh?" she asks, her voice carefully cool and distant. "Your kind don't come to the underworld often."

"I haven't met the other Senators yet," Bellamy replies. "But I don't have very high opinions of them so far, either."

Raven smirks at that and elbows Clarke.

"Oh, I like him," she says. "All right, back to business. You said you need to stay the night?"

"Please," Clarke says, wincing. "I had to smuggle them out of Arkadia while Wells and my Master try negotiating with Azgeda. As soon as the Azgedan delegation hears he's on Coruscant, they'll start playing dirty, so we're trying to buy some more time by hiding. I'd take them to the Temple, but..."

"I hear you," Raven says absently. She and Clarke keep up a running commentary as Raven leads them to her home. Most of their discussion is too quiet for Bellamy to hear clearly, even though they all keep close in the seedier areas, but he catches fragments: something about the planet Zygerria, a mission gone wrong, the careful way Raven reaches out and touches Clarke’s shoulder. Bellamy wants to hear more even as he doesn’t. It’s probably Jedi stuff, and the thought curdles Bellamy’s blood.

Raven lives inside a quiet compound with no windows and a stairway that smells like someone recently died in it. There are nearly as many locks on her front door as there were on Aurora’s.

"Get inside," Raven says once she’s got it open, gesturing sharply at him and Miller. "Close the door. My goddamn neighbours never mind their own business."

She relaxes and gives a wide, sharp-toothed yawn once the door is shut and firmly bolted. Bellamy looks around the apartment they've just entered. It's small and narrow, dark except for one flickering light in a small kitchen. It doesn't look like the Twi'lek cooks much, because the sink is literally overflowing with circuitboards. In fact, every single horizontal surface in the apartment is piled with droid parts in chaotic arrangements that make no sense to Bellamy. The single spot of calm in her home is a lone houseplant that is valiantly reaching its leaves up to the sunlamp that hangs overhead.

“Thanks for having us, Raven,” Clarke says quietly. “I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, and you missed me,” Raven teases, waving aside Clarke’s thanks. She starts shoving disassembled droids off of what Bellamy eventually realizes is a couch. "One of you can sleep here, and my bed fits two. Probably." She yawns again. "I have to head to my night shift soon. So you sleep, and I'll come wake you in the morning. It's nothing glamorous, but you can't be picky in this neighbourhood."

"I call couch," Miller says, and Bellamy shoots him a dirty look. The tiniest traces of a smirk twitch at Miller's lips. _That asshole_ , Bellamy seethes. _He knows exactly what he's doing._

"Were you racing when you should have been sleeping?" Clarke asks, gently admonishing.

"It's fine, I had a nap," Raven says.

“What do you do for work?” Bellamy asks.

“I fix starships,” Raven says with a shrug and the tone of voice one might use to say they watch paint dry for a living. “Now that we’re somewhere private, tell me how Arkadia's doing."

Her face grows more and more serious as Bellamy and Miller fill her in. Clarke, too, is affected. She saw some of the destruction on her way to the palace, but only a fraction, and there's been many injustices that Azgeda has been censoring on the Holonet. Her fists are squeezed tight by the time Bellamy finishes recounting the most recent struggles.

"We can't let this go on," Clarke says. "I'm going to give my report to the Order and insist that we intervene after the Senate meeting. This is just - "

Raven wraps an arm around Clarke's shoulders and pulls her in tightly.

"Hey, hey," she says soothingly. "That's tomorrow's battle. You need to rest now so you're ready to fight it."

“Says the one who barely slept,” Clarke grumbles. “You and Bellamy could bond over that.” Raven just flicks her forehead in response. Clarke bats her hand away halfheartedly.

Now that she's mentioned it, Bellamy notices how heavy his own limbs feel with exhaustion. The nap on the shuttle helped, but it's still not nearly enough. He can only pray that this exhaustion will be enough to send him straight to sleep before he or Clarke can acknowledge the awkwardness of sharing a bunk. He stands and follows Raven as she leads them to her bedroom and rearranges some more spare parts so they have room. Bellamy thinks, privately, that her clutter is growing on him. It makes her small and dreary apartment feel lived-in.

Raven kisses Clarke's cheek and promises she'll help them however she can, and then she's gone. Miller's soft snores are already audible.

Bellamy drifts to the side of the room, where a faded pencil drawing is pinned to the wall. Raven is instantly recognizable, even in her teenage years, by her grin and the prosthetic leg that pokes out from underneath a torn-up flightsuit. It takes him a second longer to place Clarke as the second girl in the drawing. The third figure, a boy in an oversized jacket who has his arms slung over both their shoulders, isn’t someone he recognizes.

Clarke appears at his side silently. Her face is soft and a little sad as she looks at the drawing.

“I think we’re about fourteen or fifteen in that,” she says. She reaches out and her fingertips hover over the figures. “That’s Finn, in the middle. He and Raven grew up on Tattooine, competing in podraces to try to save up enough money to move to Coruscant. And they did, but… he went back home when the money ran out.”

“I guess a fortune in prizemoney on Tattooine isn’t worth as much on Coruscant?” Bellamy asks dryly. Clarke shakes her head. She looks so young and happy in the drawing, and suddenly, she looks much more weary in the flesh next to him. Bellamy recognizes that look in her eyes. He saw it in the eyes of every Arkadian who came seeking shelter from Azgeda in the palace. He sees it in the mirror.

He can’t look, suddenly, at either Clarke, not the faded drawing or the girl. Bellamy clears his throat and turns away.

“We should – go to bed,” he says, and hopes she doesn’t hear how strangled he sounds. She murmurs a quiet agreement, and that’s that.

He unbuckles his blaster from his thigh holster and puts it under the pillow as Clarke takes off her boots. He lies down on his back without removing his heavy Senator robes, afraid he'll feel too vulnerable without them. He stares at the ceiling and pretends not to notice the bed dip as Clarke slips under the covers. He's not looking at her, but he's very aware of her lying on her side, facing him, knees drawn up to his hip. He can hear her breathing, soft and even. He hasn't shared a bed with anyone since he threw himself into Arkadia's political training program with the fury that drew Wells' attention to him in the first place. He's forgotten how intimate it is to be able to hear someone breathe like this. It’s much harder to hate someone when they’re lying next to you.

Of course Clarke ruins it.

"Why do you hate the Jedi so much?" she asks, and he takes a deep, frustrated inhale. When he doesn't answer, she plows forward. "I looked you up. Your records say you've spent your entire life on Arkadia, aside from a short diplomatic visit to Alderaan two years ago. I researched every Jedi mission on or near Arkadia in the last two decades. There's been no controversy or disaster."

"Aside from the total lack of help during the blockade the past three months?"

"It runs deeper than that," Clarke insists. "I can feel it. I wasn't trying to get into your head. Like I said, you have very good mental shields. But when you asked me earlier, on the shuttle, if we were going to be spending the night at the Jedi Temple, you were _afraid_."

"Stay out of my head," Bellamy snarls.

"I am!" Clarke snaps. "It's not like I go around prying into everyone's thoughts, but things slip through. It's like having really good hearing. When you're around people you're going to overhear snippets of conversation even if you're not trying to listen in."

"Then try harder not to hear," Bellamy says stiffly.

"Do you even know how stupid that sounds?"

Miller's gentle snores hitch for a moment, and they both fall silent until he evens out again.

"I'm sorry," Clarke says eventually. "I know the Force seems really scary to people that have never experienced it before, and there's some nasty rumours about Jedi flying around... But we're the good guys. If you just give us a chance."

"I'm not afraid of the Force," Bellamy says. He turns onto his side, putting his back to her even though it makes the back of his neck prickle. "I just don't want your mind tricks anywhere near me."

She doesn't say anything to that, and Bellamy doesn't know why he feels almost disappointed. His earlier exhaustion feels like it's locked behind a door. He can still feel it, out of reach, pulling his eyelids shut, but he's too angry to give in to it, his mind still racing with thoughts.

Eventually he turns back to face her, stewing in frustration, and finds Clarke fast asleep. He examines her peaceful face for a while, knowing he won't get a chance like this while she's awake. He must fall asleep at some point, but when it happens, it is gentle and unexpected.

Hours later in the middle of the night, he’s woken up by a violent kick to the shins. Bellamy’s eyes fly open and he draws in a sharp, hissing breath as he reaches for his leg. He’s about to yell at Clarke for kicking him when she rolls right off the side of the bed. The _thud_ as she hits the ground tells him she wasn’t awake.

He’s stunned into silence when she leaps to her feet in the middle of Raven’s bedroom and ignites her lightsaber. The bright blue beam of it casts everything else into an eerie glow. Bellamy’s heart skips a beat as he glances wildly about for the danger, but Clarke is frozen in the same deep crouch. Her hands shake around the hilt of her lightsaber.

Bellamy sits up very slowly. He’s had years of practice waking people up from their nightmares.

“Clarke?” he asks, striving for a soft, calm voice. “You awake?”

A moment later she powers off the lightsaber, sending the room back into silent darkness. Bellamy blinks, trying to readjust his eyes.

“A nightmare?” he asks.

“A memory.” Clarke replies shortly. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

She climbs back into bed without another word and curls up underneath the blankets, facing away from him. Her shoulders are still tense when he falls asleep again.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Clarke wakes first.

It's an alien experience. She remembers being fifteen and worn thin on Anya's strict training regime. Mornings were always a particularly strong source of friction between them - Anya woke up at dawn and rarely had the patience to wait for her teenage Padawan to follow at her own pace. Even now, she's usually woken up before she's willing.

She lies in bed for several more minutes, mulling over how much she misses her Master. It's supposed to be an honour that Anya thinks she's nearly ready for the Trials, nearly ready to take on the universe by herself. She should feel excited. But the universe is increasingly feeling like a very cruel tragedy to face alone.

Raven's chronometer says there are still a few hours before the Senate gathers, so Clarke decides to let the boys keep resting, especially when Bellamy looks so much less of an asshole when he's sleeping peacefully next to her. She feels surprisingly well-rested, despite waking up in the middle of the night. Looks like sleeping in a real bed does enough wonders on its own.

She sits up and crosses her legs, careful not to jostle Bellamy or squeak the rusted bedframe too much. She closes her eyes, and reaches out. The Force meets her like a gentle wave lapping at her skin and she sighs into it. She can feel, distantly, inhabitants of Raven's housing block moving around in their own apartments, and keeps pushing the limits of her consciousness through layers of durasteel and concrete. Out on the street, someone is lying, the Force tangled around him in tight knots. Someone laughs, and it feels like light made liquid. She brushes their minds only shallowly, just enough to search for violence or anything threatening. Clarke extends herself until she feels it stretch, like reaching down to touch her toes, and then slowly gathers herself back into her mind.

Anya always said meditation was about focusing on the inner self, but Clarke has a hard time with that. It's easier to anchor herself to something living than to try to float aimlessly, but the conversation she had last night with Bellamy weighs heavily on her. Even now she's drawn to explore him, her curiosity itching at the edges of her guilt. It's just that - part of their training in the Temple is shielding their minds. It's both a necessary measure to keep hundreds of Force-sensitives living under the same roof from driving each other insane, and a defense against the occasional rogue Force-user. Everyone Clarke's ever met uses variations on the same technique; a blockage that feels like a smooth, blank wall. 

The outer edges of Bellamy's mind are a lawless hurricane, an everchanging roll of wind and... _anger?_ Clarke can't quite call it undisciplined, because it's clear he's put effort and practice into it, and when she tried to probe his mind at their first meeting it was just as effective at keeping her out as some of the stronger walls she's met... But it's like nothing she's encountered or heard of before. And she wants, so deeply, to know who taught him that, and what else he knows.

She opens her eyes and looks at him. He is still asleep, his arm slung over his chest, his mouth slack and peaceful. 

Clarke exhales, closes her eyes once more and reaches for the plant in Raven's kitchen. It greets her with the simple, uncomplicated joy of a non-sentient. She loses herself in a wash of green, thinking thoughts of growing and health and height. It's not until something unexpectedly clatters loudly in the next room over that she snaps back to herself. In a split second she's vaulted to her feet, lightsaber in hand, only to blink as Miller apologizes.

"Knocked over a damn droid!" he calls. "Sorry!"

Bellamy is standing in front of her, eyes wide, limply holding a coat. 

"You're awake," she says, breathlessly. "Good."

His eyes flicker down to the unlit lightsaber she's still holding up. She straightens her back and clips it back to her belt in a silent apology. Her cheeks burn as the hazy memory of her violent awakening in the middle of the night starts to return to her. A glance towards the chrono tells her she's been meditating for the better part of an hour, and it's time to get going soon. 

"What do you think?" Bellamy asks suddenly, breaking her train of thought.

"What?"

He holds the first of two outfits up to his chest and Clarke's eyes trace the simple but fine cut, the subtle embroidered designs. 

"The Senate is a damned fashion show as much as it is a courtroom," Bellamy mutters, sounding disgusted. "I don't like the game, but I have to play it. And I can't decide if I should try to present myself as intimidating or sympathetic."

Clarke bites her lip. He's asking for an unbiased, political opinion, she knows. She should not tell him to go for the sleek, dark jacket just because she kind of wants to see his shoulders in it. 

"It's your first impression on them, isn't it?" she asks. He nods tersely. "I think you should go for intimidating. The Senate moves on greed, not pity. They won't vote to liberate Arkadia unless they think they can get something out of it later, and if you look weak now..."

"It'll be harder to shake that reputation," Bellamy finishes. "All right. The people have spoken."

He turns his back on her and starts unbuttoning the robes he was wearing yesterday. Clarke bites her lip again and looks at the ceiling. 

"What did Miller vote for?" she asks casually. 

"Miller doesn't get a vote, because he's useless," Bellamy says. 

"I heard that, and I resent it!" Miller calls. 

"Your democracy seems flawed," Clarke says, and if she didn't know any better, she'd swear she sees Bellamy's cheek twitch with a smile before he ducks his head and pulls a shirt over his head. Clarke mouths a silent curse at the sight of his sculpted bare back before he quickly pulls his undershirt down to cover it. 

He's a goddamn politician. When does he have time to work out? She leaves the room, because that's enough of that. Thankfully, taking the lead on their way to the Senate building means she can walk ahead of him and keep her head firmly pointed forwards, and she doesn't have to see the line of his broad shoulders in that jacket. She calls for a taxi once they reach Coruscant's surface and keeps the driver engaged in idle conversation so he doesn't look too much at the hooded figure sitting in the back with Miller. When the taxi drops them off at the Senate building and speeds off, she gives Bellamy a baleful look. 

"You'd be safer if I erased his memory of us," she says, just because she's feeling a little spiteful. He gives her a sharp look, but doesn't jump for the bait, just tugs his hood further down his face.

"Let's get inside, please," Miller says, his hands tightening on the barrel of his blaster rifle as he scans the wide-open loading area and dozens of speeders dropping off passengers. Clarke nudges Bellamy forward and they make it through security as discreetly as possible. Inside the halls, Clarke reaches out and tugs for the Force regardless of what Bellamy thinks of it. She weaves a veil of unimportance around them and several other delegations walk past them without so much as a sideways look at them, ready to bend someone's attention away from Bellamy if needed. They make it to the Senate Chamber without any incident, and Clarke casts one last furtive look down the hall before following the others onto Arkadia's delegation platform and closing the doors behind them. 

There is a darkened area at the back of each platform hidden from the view of the rest of the Senate, and they stay there in the shadows, peering out into the opening that gives them their first glimpse of the Senate Chambers. They were one of the last delegations to arrive - almost every other platform that Clarke can see has two or three figures conversing quietly on it. 

She ducks into the corner opposite Miller and Bellamy for a sliver of privacy, and pulls out the commlink that Raven left for her on the table. And although it's an older model that Raven's refurbished, the signal here on Coruscant is clear and vivid, hardly any interference to turn the figure that answers her call into static. 

Clarke is relieved to see that the hologram is Master Jackson. She's not supposed to pick favourites on the Jedi Council, of course, but Jackson is Mandalorian, like her, and not as prone to cryptic nonsense as, say, Master Luna or Master Gaia. Clarke bows instantly but makes no effort to hide the smile that spreads on her face as Jackson spreads his arms in greeting. 

"Padawan Griffin," he greets. "The Council didn't know when to expect an update from you and Master Anya, but we've all been hoping it would be soon."

"It's just me today, Master Jackson," Clarke says, and summarizes the situation on Arkadia as quickly as she can. Jackson raises an eyebrow at her when she explains that Anya is trusting her with a solo mission of this scale, but thankfully doesn't hint at any Trials. Clarke doesn't want to think about those yet.

"Thank you," Jackson says. "Keep us posted after the Senate session. Tell Senator Blake we wish him luck."

"Will do," Clarke says as the call ends, meaning the first order and not the second. Knowing Bellamy, he'd probably take the Jedi wishing him luck as a personal affront, no matter how kindly meant. Clarke glances at him and finds him breathing deeply, his fists clenched, his eyes wide and bright with an inner fire. She pockets the commlink and goes to his side.

"Are you nervous?" she asks softly. 

"No," he says, and it's true: there's no hesitation or uncertainty in his voice or surrounding him in the Force. He gives her a grim smile. "This is what I've been preparing for." 

And then Chancellor Titus steps up and taps his microphone. 

"Honourable representatives of the Republic," he begins. "It's time to gather. I believe we have everyone that will be attending today. The Senators from Chandrila, Haidoral Prime, and Arkadia will not be joining us today. On the agenda..."

"That our cue," Bellamy says lowly, and he strides forward onto the delegate platform with his head held high, his walk forceful and furious. Clarke and Miller exchange a look.

"He's just going for it, isn't he?" Miller mutters. Clarke presses her lips together nervously, and they follow him out just before the platform detaches from the wall and hovers forward.

"Arkadia is present!" Bellamy calls out, and a shocked murmur of voices ripples through the entire Galactic Senate. Clarke looks up and around and feels tiny for the first time in her life. There's so  _many_  Senators, so many planets represented here, that the people on the farthest platforms can barely be distinguished at all. She feels a wave of hopelessness crash over her at the sight of such a large gathering. How in the Force can Bellamy be expected to convince enough of them to save Arkadia?

Chancellor Titus is one of the first to recover from his shock. 

"The Chair recognizes the sovereign system of Arkadia," he says formally, bowing his tattooed head ever so slightly in greeting. "And you are..."

"Senator Bellamy Blake," he fills in. His shoulders are shaking imperceptibly with the weight of so many eyes on him, but his voice is strong and steady, utterly captivating. Clarke is beginning to see why Wells respects him so. "Honorable representatives of the Republic, I wish we were meeting in better circumstances. As it is, my first words to you are words of tragedy and destruction. My planet has been under siege from Azgeda for ten months. My people cannot get out, and food and medicine cannot get in. Azgeda has been intentionally starving us for the better part of a standard year, and when that wasn't killing us fast enough for their tastes, they started setting fire to our forests."

Clarke realizes her jaw is hanging and quickly closes her mouth. She's suddenly found that she enjoys Bellamy's stubborn passion much more when it's not directed straight at her. 

"Lies!" a furious female voices hisses from the opposite side. Clarke jerks her head up as Senator Echo's platform joins theirs in the middle of the chamber. She comes close enough that Clarke can see the ritualistic scarring on her face, the suspicious, narrowed eyes on her blue face. 

"The Chair does not recognize the Senator of Azgeda at this time," the Chancellor says sharply.

"I'm not going to stay silent when a stranger shows up and starts insulting me," Echo spits.

"Senators," Bellamy says, his voice echoing in the chambers. He spreads his arms wide. "If Azgeda cannot be bothered to follow the rules and traditions of the honourable Galactic Senate under your very noses, how can you trust them to act legally and justly when they are far from your eyes? They have jammed my planet's transmissions so we could not report on any atrocities they committed against us, but it's not too late to fix this. I propose a vote to remove Azgeda's blockade around Arkadia and send relief ships to my people."

"There's no proof of this," a new voice insists, and as one they turn to watch a third platform drift into the center of the chamber. Senator Diana Sydney glowers down at Bellamy. "An investigation must be done before we pour time and resources into a problem that may not even exist!"

"Clarke," Bellamy says, too quiet for the microphones to broadcast. He meets her eyes, and she doesn't need the Force to see the flicker of doubt there, like he's not sure she'll stand up and join him. Clarke steps up without hesitation. Her feet carry her to the edge of the platform and she rests her hands on the railing mere inches away from his, trying to tell him with her eyes alone that she's here until the end. For a moment the rest of the universe goes quiet. His own eyes are wide and pleading. After a lifetime raised among Jedi, it's alarming to Clarke how much Bellamy Blake seems to _feel_ , how it radiates off of him, how he wears emotion in every line of his face. She swallows hard and tears her gaze away from him, looking up at the senate.

"An investigation _has_  been done," Clarke speaks, her voice trembling only slightly as it echoes up and away. "Jedi Master Anya and I can confirm Senator Blake's claims. The Jedi are neutral observers. Who could make a better judgement than us?"

"I second that," a new voice says, and Clarke's face breaks into a wide smile as she turns to see Senator Lincoln's platform descending to their level. He was a few years ahead of her in the creche, but she still remembers him being a kind and patient teenager, and his reputation lingers in the Temple. Bellamy, too, stands straighter at his approach. "As you all know, I left the Jedi Order a few years ago for personal reasons, but I still have the utmost respect for them. And if we are being told of this injustice, it is our duty to listen, and to do something about it. I put forth a motion to end Azgeda's blockade. The Trigeda system will send aid as soon as we can."

There are cheers and murmurs throughout the chamber, as well as some vocal taunts from a few of Azgeda's allies. Clarke watches Echo whispering furiously to her aides and frowns. She reaches out with the Force and nearly staggers under the weight of so many lifeforms packed together. Her head reels and she pulls herself back together. She's too unfocused to read Echo here and now.

"Lincoln's well respected by the Senate," Bellamy says to her under his breath. "If he's supporting us, many other pacifist systems will follow."

"Echo is up to something," Clarke murmurs dizzily. "I don't know, I can't - "

"Honourable representatives," Echo announces, stepping up and casting a slick, sharp-toothed smile around the chamber. "Before we resort to such harsh measures, let me speak with my government. Surely this is all a misunderstanding and can be resolved without the Senate's intervention."

"No," Bellamy growls, and slams his hand down to turn his microphone on. "You call three months of my people suffering a  _misunderstanding?_ "

"I call for a recess!" Echo continues, shouting to be heard over Bellamy. His face crumples, and even with the Force as clouded as it is Clarke can tell he's distraught.

"What's wrong?" she asks quickly. "Why is that bad?"

To her horror, there are murmurs of assent all around the chamber, and even Lincoln looks thoughtful.

"Bellamy?" she asks, placing a hand against his arm. He's shaking underneath her touch. "Bellamy, why is that bad?"

"Senate sessions are closed," he answers dully, staring straight ahead as Echo smirks at him. "Senators can't contact their homeworld for advice or to relay proceedings until the end. Our plan hinged on my convincing the Senate to force Azgeda to end the blockade in a single session. Now, as soon as Echo tells Azgeda I tried to do this, they'll get suspicious of Wells and Master Anya's treaty negotiations. They could - they could be in danger, and it's all my fault."

"No," Clarke and Miller say at once. Clarke gives him a panicked look over Bellamy's shoulder, and Miller grimaces back at her. He's probably feeling even more lost in the politics than she is - at least she's had some experience with her mother.

"The Chair approves Senator Echo's motion for a recess," Chancellor Titus says, sweeping a gaze over the chamber. The Mirialan's decision is final. "We will end the session here and resume tomorrow."

Bellamy stumbles as their platform begins to move back towards the wall without their command. Clarke shakes her head, wondering where they went wrong and what they could have done better. Bellamy moves like a wraith to the back of the platform, where the darkness affords him a small amount of privacy from the rest of the Senate. He collapses into a chair and covers his face with his hands. 

"I've failed," he says, sounding broken and muffled through his hands. 

"We have not," Clarke says, surprising herself with the intensity of her hope. "We're not done yet and Wells - they knew the risks. They won't stop fighting either. Bellamy, we've still made progress."

"How?" he asks, parting his fingers to look at her helplessly. 

"Now we have allies," she says with a grim, furious look in her eyes.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to balance canon Star Wars vocabulary with like, a shred of reason. Words like [durasteel](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Durasteel) and [airspeeder](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Airspeeder) are fairly self-explanatory I think, but I've drawn the line at calling glass=transparisteel and clocks=chronometers. Sometimes less is more, George Lucas, not that you'd know. Feedback on whether the vocab is accessible or not is very appreciated!
> 
> Raven is a [Twi'lek](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Twi%27lek). This is partially because I thought Raven having her hair up all the time would make it easier for readers to visualize [lekku](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Lekku) on her head than other characters, partially as a nod to the fabulous pilot [Hera Syndulla](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Hera_Syndulla) and partially because in SW canon Twi'leks are uh, heavily sexualized in a similar way that Latinx people are, so this representation felt Right.
> 
> [Podracing](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Podracing) is that thing that happened in Phantom Menace, which I know basically everyone erased from their memory. #valid  
> Google results for Coruscanti podracing were varied and unhelpful, but idgaf. They totally have some kind of incredibly dangerous racing and Raven's great at it.
> 
> Azgeda is loosely based on [Pantora](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Pantoran). How could I not? They're blue ice people with facial markings.  
> I deliberated for a long time over whether or not to make Echo Azgeda's Senator, because it seems like a rather public profession for a canonical spy, but eh, fuck it. She won't play a major part in this story. I am apathetic about her character and would rather no one rant for or against her in the comments.
> 
> Titus, if you remember him, was that bald Flamekeeper guy who was really salty about Clarke. He's [Mirialan](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mirialan/Legends) because they're into head tattoos and Chancellor because I needed someone to be There and vaguely incompetent.  
> Jackson is a human from [Mandalore](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mandalore), chosen bc I can't bear to truly separate him from Abby Griffin.  
> Lincoln is Dooku without the evil. He nope-d out of the Jedi Order a while back and is living his best life. Trigeda is not based on any canon SW planet at all, it's just like........... a planet with some trees on it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, comments appreciated, you can find me on tumblr as [kindclaws](http://kindclaws.tumblr.com/).


	3. glitter and grime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** a minor character dies offscreen. I don't believe in killing characters off for the sake of killing them off *cough cough JROTH cough cough* but there will be several minor character deaths scattered through this story and if that may bother you you're welcome to ask me more questions privately.

 

**THE SENATE, CORUSCANT**

 

What should be a five minute walk from the Senate chambers to the loading area stretches into a half-hour, then nearly an hour as Bellamy is accosted from all angles by other Senators who are all eager to shake his hand and ply him with questions about where he stands on other political issues. He feels like an insect pinned to a tray, prodded and dissected and discussed, but he forces himself through it, slipping naturally into the charismatic persona that catapulted him to the top of his class on Arkadia. He smiles, he holds eye contact just long enough to show he won't be cowed, he politely sidesteps the pitfalls some Senators try to pull him into by insisting he really can't speak on anything else until Azgeda has been dealt with.

All the while his skin _crawls_ with the insincerity of it all.

He thinks Clarke might turn them away at some point, some sort of mind trick that makes the other Senators quickly find somewhere else to be, and he's too grateful to snap at her for it. The hallways are still too public for him to rest for a moment and try to collect himself like he desperately needs to. He resists the urge to hide his face in his hands again or to show any sign of how overwhelmed he feels. In the chamber while he spoke, sheer adrenaline fueled him - now, it leaves him with hands as shaky as if he'd just downed a bucket of coffee.

And that’s before Senator Cage decides to invite himself into Bellamy’s personal space.

Clarke is there in an instant, putting her whole body between Bellamy and the unwelcome Zygerrian senator. Cage’s gaze flickers from him to Clarke.

“Ah,” he says as though discovering something. His feline mouth curls into an unpleasant sneer as he stares at Clarke. “I remember you. The little infiltrator. I’d say I hope you found your stay in my home rewarding, but…”

Clarke says nothing. Cage’s mouth widens into an insidious smile.

“You didn’t find what you were looking for, did you?” he says. “Pity.” Then his slitted eyes flicker back to Bellamy. “Welcome to the lion’s den, Senator Blake.”

“Move on,” Miller says. He waits just long enough before tacking on an insincere “ _Sir_.”

Cage reluctantly walks away with a lingering look. One of his aides, clutching an absurd amount of files in her arms, hesitates before following him with small, quick steps. Her tail lashes nervously in her wake. Bellamy doesn’t exhale until the tip of it has vanished around the corner.

"You all right?" Miller asks just under his breath. Bellamy shakes his head imperceptibly.

"Fine," he murmurs. His hand instinctively reaches for Clarke’s shoulder before he catches himself – they’re not friends, she won’t want his comfort. He drops his hand to his side and flexes it. “Clarke? You’ve met him before?”

Clarke gives him and Miller an unreadable look.

“My Master and I spent four months undercover as prisoners in a Zygerrian fortress called Mount Weather. A fortress he happens to own,” she says flatly. She turns away and does not look at him. “That man is the reason I didn’t hear about Arkadia’s siege until last week.”

The implications make Bellamy reel back. It takes him too long to notice the lone man who strides up to them without hesitation. By the time he looks up, Senator Kane of Mandalore is already laying a hand on his shoulder. He can’t help but flinch, still unsettled by the distant and cold look in Clarke’s eyes.

"Hello, Senator Blake," he says. "I'm glad to see someone finally made it off Arkadia. Tell me, is Prince Wells safe?"

Bellamy stiffens under the touch and the question, even though Kane's voice is low and soothing, his face creased with worry in all the right places. He recognizes Kane from Holonet, of course - he's a man who frequently has opinions, sanctimoniously, and in front of cameras - but it takes him a moment too long to remember that Kane was originally from Arkadia before he married Mandalore's Duchess, and has known both Wells and Clarke since they were children.

"Wells was exhausted but standing strong, when we last saw him," Clarke answers, before he can. "And my Master will never let anything happen to him."

He shoots her a sharp look, wishing she'd let him speak. There have been other Senators asking how Wells is handling it, like vultures prying for weakness, and Kane's reputation for pacifism may be solid but Bellamy wanted to make his own impressions of the man.

"Forgive my hesitation," Bellamy says smoothly, nodding his head at Kane. "You're not the first to ask, and not everyone has good intentions. Well met."

"Well met," Kane echos, shaking his hand just once and then falling into step next to Bellamy. "That was a bold first impression to make on the Senate. I expect they'll be talking about it for a while. You handled yourself very well."

Bellamy is torn between accepting the obvious compliment from a man who knows the Senate inside out, and reminding him that being a newcomer to Coruscant doesn't mean he's a newcomer to politics. Arkadia trains their politicians young and Bellamy – well. He’s been a liar all his life.

Then he remembers Miller quietly reminding him not to antagonize _all_ his allies.

"Thank you," he says eventually. He's relieved when Kane leaves it at that and Clarke starts plying him with questions about how her mother is doing instead. Miller nudges his shoulder, and Bellamy nods. Kane gets them a transport to 500 Republica, where they'll be staying now that Azgeda knows they're here, and the trip passes Bellamy's attention entirely. He's nearly numb when Miller tells them they've arrived and Clarke jumps out of the transport to scout ahead.

The apartment reserved for him at 500 Republica is grander than anything he's ever seen in his life, more ostentatious than even Arkadia's palace. Bellamy makes a beeline past chandeliers and crystal coffee tables to the balcony. His pulse pounds in his eardrums as he braces his hands against the railing and looks down at the formidable drop to the surface of Coruscant. From here the planet is beautiful - elegant skyscrapers all around, glass that reflects a rainbow of colours, skylanes that move with a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Bellamy thinks of the poverty in the lower levels that he can't see from this height and feels sick. There is movement behind him.

 _Clarke_.

She puts her hands on the railing next to his.

"I know you probably want some time alone," she says, quiet and gentle over the moan of wind whistling through skyscrapers. "But the balcony is too exposed to leave you unguarded."

"It's fine," Bellamy says, and is surprised to find he means it. He closes his eyes. "You're fine."

She already saw him holding back tears just after the Chancellor called for a recess. And Bellamy is starting to get the idea that he'll need her protection for longer than he thought. He may as well give in to the fact that she'll see him at much worse than this.

"Your Master - " Bellamy says. He swallows. "Anya. Is she good?"

"One of the best," Clarke says. Her eyes fall to the balcony's tile floor. They don't need to say aloud the danger they've put Wells in. They're both painfully aware. "In more ways than one."

"I hope you see her soon," Bellamy says, and it still feels stiff, this olive branch, but Clarke just gives a tiny smile and moves to look out over Coruscant.

He only gives himself a few minutes, just long enough for the rush of thoughts in his head to settle into something more manageable. He loosens the tight, stiff collar of his jacket and follows the breathing exercises that Aurora taught him as a child, so long ago. When he opens his eyes again, Clarke is watching with an unreadable expression.

"I'm sorry I lashed out at you for not coming to Arkadia sooner," he says. The words taste like ash in his mouth - he was never very good at apologizing when he was younger, and it's not a skill he was encouraged to develop in his political studies, but the way Clarke's eyes widen makes it worth it. "I didn't know," he says. "About Mount Weather."

He pulls away from the railing and re-enters the apartment without waiting for her response. He's not sure he could handle it right now, on top of everything else.

To his surprise, Senator Lincoln is already seated at the table, a glass of water in hand, his metal-and-bone adorned coat draped over the back of a chair. The Zygerrian aide that scurried after Cage is sitting next to him, a massive stack of papers in front of her. Bellamy stiffens when he recognizes her.

They both stand as Bellamy and Clarke approach. Bellamy shakes Lincoln's hand and they exchange introductions politely. The Zygerrian hangs back, her feline eyes darting rapidly from Clarke to Bellamy. Lincoln gestures her forward with a friendly smile.

"This is Maya Vie," he says. "She's Senator Wallace's aide, and she's here on a rather unofficial capacity, if you know what I mean."

"Meaning Cage Wallace is a warmongering xenophobe and would hate it if he heard you were here?" Bellamy asks. Maya's ears flatten against her head as she shakes his hand. Bellamy suppresses a flinch when he feels her claws accidentally scrape against his palm. Maya pulls away and crosses her arms.

"Something like that," she says. Bellamy scans her face carefully. It's been a long time since the Zygerrian slave trade was destroyed, but Zygerria still caries that dark history with it throughout the galaxy, and enough of its ruling class talks about 'the good old days' that he's not entirely comfortable with her being here. Not to mention the undercover mission Clarke only briefly alluded to. He glances at his Jedi shadow. Her face is stiff and unreadable. No help there.

"Why should we trust that you're any different?" Bellamy asks, carefully neutral. Maya points a furry hand towards the dusty stack of papers on the table.

"Those are from the Archives," she says. "Previous Senate decisions on similar cases that could give you legal precedent to work with, if we can't sway enough votes to stop Azgeda. Trust me, the Archives are a disaster. They purposefully don't digitize most of the records there so you can only find something in it if you _really_ want it. I can feel my brain cells dying of boredom every time I go in. I wouldn't have done this for you if I didn't care. I'm committed to helping however I can."

Bellamy holds her gaze for a moment. She raises her chin and looks nervous but defiant.

"Thank you," he says.

Kane starts pulling folders off of the dusty stack and passing them around the table, and Bellamy settles in for a long night of reading case files. For a moment he's struck by the familiarity of it all, feeling like he's back on Arkadia, studying for the chance at something greater than Aurora's deteriorating tailor shop. Clarke and Miller assign themselves to sorting the cases and occasionally reading out a paragraph that might be helpful. A few hours later they've made some progress, but nothing that'll shake the foundations of the Senate, and Bellamy's neck is aching fiercely.

He sits back and tries to stretch out the stiffness in his shoulders. Maya is staring at Clarke, her eyes wide. It's not the first time he's glanced up and found her peeking in that direction.

"Something wrong with my Jedi?" he asks, unable to stop himself. Maya starts.

"No," she says quickly. "It's just - I've never met one before. Can I... Could I see you fight?"

Clarke smiles hesitantly, dispelling the tension, and it looks like the whole table could do with a short break from reading. There all encouraging nods all around. Clarke slips off her chair and steps out into the wide open floor. She circles around once, the lightsaber hilt in her hand, and apparently effortlessly lifts a couch out of the way with the Force to give herself more room.

Bellamy watches, transfixed, as she drops into a low crouch and holds her lightsaber upright with both hands. It blazes to life with a low hum, and the room is utterly silent as Clarke spins around on one foot and lashes out with a wide sweep at waist-height. Her blade is a pale blue, like her eyes, and Bellamy realizes it's the first time he's seen her fight with it. He's always known the Jedi are supposed to be formidable opponents, but it doesn't really strike him until he's watching her pivot and twirl her saber in elegant, unpredictable arcs. He has to force himself to remember to breathe after she somersaults higher than should be possible and nearly takes out the chandelier above her.

"Watch the chandelier!" Kane cries out, apparently not the only one who noticed the close call, and Clarke drops to a three-point landing and powers down the lightsaber she's holding out to the side. Without its hum, the room seems too quiet.

"Sorry," she says, a little sheepish. Her eyes are alight with a feverish glow, her smile delighted and a little wild. Bellamy thinks she might have liked that a little more than a Jedi is supposed to. He thinks _he_ might have liked that a little more than he's supposed to. His mouth is dry. Maya claps, her canines exposed as she grins.

"I almost want someone to try messing with us now," Miller says, high-fiving Clarke as she returns to the table. "Just to see you in action."

"I'll be sure to put myself in more vulnerable situations," Bellamy says dryly, and Miller gives him a _look_ that can only be translated as _I know you enjoyed that_. Bellamy will admit nothing. He looks down at the case file in his hands and pretends to be very absorbed in reading it, but he can't remember what paragraph he was on before Clarke did her demonstration. The brilliant blue light of her saber is still stamped onto his retinas, and he blinks it away furiously, determined not to be affected.

A distraction comes in the form of a pounding knock on the door. The banter stops, and Maya quietly gathers up all the records that she can reach and tiptoes into the next room over, hidden from the door. The knock comes again, impatient and angry.

"I'll get it," Miller volunteers, shouldering his blaster rifle and walking over. Clarke plants herself in front of Bellamy, her stance not particularly aggressive but certainly ready for anything. As soon as Miller opens it, several of the blue-armoured Senate guards shoulder their way in and take up stances around the kitchen. Like Clarke, they are not obviously aggressive and the blaster rifles on their backs aren't out, but Bellamy knows something is wrong all the same.

"What's the meaning of this?" Kane demands. Two guards go to check the back rooms and Maya comes scurrying out a moment later, her tail lashing nervously behind her.

"We've been ordered to locate every Senator and put them on lockdown," one of the guards says, paying Kane little attention as he glances at each face in the room and taps something into a datapad with a satisfied nod.

"Why?" Bellamy demands. "What's going on?"

The guard barely glances at him.

"Senator Diana Sydney has been found murdered in her quarters," he says. "Until the investigation is complete, you are not to leave this apartment without an escort. A squadron will be stationed outside your doors for your protection."

"For our protection, or our imprisonment?" Bellamy asks with narrowed eyes.

"You can't keep me here," Clarke says, stepping up. "I'm a Jedi. We govern our own, you don't have the power to do this."

"Actually," the guard says, finally putting down the datapad and meeting her furious glare. "Since the Senator seems to have been killed by a lightsaber, and you recently clashed with her in the Senate, I do."

With that, the guards file out, closing the door behind them. In the shocked silence that follows, everyone turns to Clarke.

 

 

 

 

 

**500 REPUBLICA, CORUSCANT**

 

"Since when do the Jedi go around committing vigilante justice?" Miller demands.

"We don't!" Clarke says, tears springing to her eyes. She blinks them back furiously and starts pacing in front of their assembled group. "We uphold the laws of the Republic. We _definitely_ don't murder people. It's not the Jedi way."

"Who else would have a lightsaber?" Bellamy demands. Clarke and Lincoln exchange a glance.

"Very few people, outside of the Order," Lincoln says grimly. "It's very rare for Jedi to leave like I did, and we turn in our lightsabers when we do, though I suppose someone determined could make a new one. Or..."

"That's a dangerous conclusion to jump to," Clarke warns before he can invoke the Sith. Anya didn't raise her to be superstitious, but some graves are better left undisturbed. "Who would kill Diana Sydney, and why? She's a Senator, yes, but not a particularly prominent one."

"My gut tells me it's Azgeda," Bellamy says darkly.

"She argued for them," Miller comments.

"Exactly," Kane says somberly. "No one's going to blame them first. But if they've staged it to look like a lightsaber wound, this could be an attempt to discredit Clarke. If they shake the Senate's trust in her, or the Jedi as a whole, then her testimony is worth less and Azgeda could stall the Senate with a commission that lasts months."

"And by the time that's over..." Lincoln says.

"Wells will already have been forced to sign the treaty," Bellamy says flatly. The muscle in his jaw is twitching furiously again. Clarke doesn't need to touch the Force to know how heavily the despair weighs on his shoulders.

"I want to see the body," Clarke says, planting her feet decisively. "To an inexperienced eye, blaster wounds could look like a lightsaber stabbing, but blasters are a far lower temperature. There would be scorch marks, there’d be – clues. _Something_. We can’t just sit here and wait."

"Okay," Bellamy says. "Let's go."

She stares at him.

"You're not coming," she says. "We can't go out the front door, we're on guard."

"Not if you do the thing to make people look away," Bellamy argues.

"Oh, _now_ you approve of ’ _Jedi mind tricks_ ’?" she snarls, wiggling her fingers in mock quotation marks.

"How would you get out by yourself anyway?" Maya finally speaks up. The question startles Clarke and Bellamy out of what looked to be shaping up into another belligerent fight.

Clarke pulls out her commlink and pages the first number Raven programmed into it. A moment later, the mechanic herself shows up as a tiny hologram, rubbing sleepily at her eyes.

"This better be good, Griffin," Raven warns. "I was having a really, really great dream."

"There's been a murder in the Senate," Clarke tells the hologram. "And they think it was done by lightsaber, so obviously, those porg-brain guards are blaming me."

"Clarke," Raven says after a moment. "I was asleep for _one_ day."

"Yeah, yeah, the universe falls apart when you're not there to supervise," Clarke says hurriedly, not eager to get that conversation going again. "Anyway, I want to do my own investigation, but we're under house arrest. Any ideas?"

Raven sucks in a deep breath through her pointed teeth.

"Hmm. Yeah," she says after a moment of contemplation. "I could hotwire a limousine speeder to your balcony."

"Is she serious?" Lincoln asks.

"Unless you've got a better idea," Raven says, her little hologram self waggling her fingers at him before she pulls a datapad into her lap.

"It's not very subtle," Bellamy warns with a wince.

"Fine," Raven says. "On the opposite end of the glam spectrum, Clarke, how do you feel about revisiting the garbage chute?"

Clarke groans and rolls her eyes upwards.

"That was _one_ time," she mutters, trying not to blush as the rest of the room gives her interested looks. "And no, I'm not telling you the story," she says when it looks like Miller is about to ask. "Fine, I'll do it. Sorry for waking you up for this. Do you want to go back to sleep now?"

"Hell no," Raven says. "Murdered Senators? Hot Jedi jumping head-first into dangerous situations? This is better than the Holodramas I torrent on my neighbour's relays."

"Glad that's all I am to you," Clarke says dryly. "Be my guest, stay on the line," she says, and clips the commlink onto the collar of her tunic. She nods at the others. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I'm still coming with you," Bellamy argues, his mouth set in a hard line.

"Definitely not," Clarke says, effortlessly pushing past him to get to the small, inconspicuous door in the kitchen wall. To her relief, it looks like her hips will fit through the opening. "You are staying right here with Miller glued to you and your job is to remain thoroughly unmurdered until I get back."

"Do you know how to find Diana Sydney's apartment?" Bellamy demands. Clarke hesitates long enough for him to seize the opportunity. "I do."

 _He hasn't even been in this building before!_ she thinks, frowning at him.

"I don't even know everyone's location," Kane says, giving voice to her frustration. "And I've been here for years. How do you?"

"I memorized the blueprints for both 500 Republica and the Senate building," Bellamy admits, a little bit defensively. "I didn't want to have to ask for directions if someone invited me to a meeting somewhere. I wasn't going to embarrass myself on my first day on Coruscant."

"You're not going without me," Miller tells Bellamy.

"This isn't a party," Clarke says, growing irritated. "We're supposed to be under lockdown, we can't all vanish."

"I'll stay here," Maya quickly volunteers, and parks herself back at the table with another pile of archive files to read through.

"I'll remain as well," Kane says, bowing his head and taking a step back. "My action days are behind me, unfortunately, but if the guards check in on us, I may have enough authority to buy you more time to return."

All eyes turn to Lincoln.

"Do you want me to come?" he asks Clarke. She hesitates.

"Yes and no," she finally admits. "You used to be a Jedi, your input could be valuable. But the bigger the group gets, the less conspicuous we'll be, and _someone_ is insisting his presence is necessary."

Bellamy does not take the hint. She didn't think he would, but it was worth a shot.

"I will stay," Lincoln says, ever the diplomat, before her staredown with Bellamy can get much worse. Even having left the Order, it seems like Lincoln makes a better Jedi than she does. Clarke stares at Bellamy for another moment, but he seems determined not to budge. She sighs, and jerks the door open.

"Into the garbage chute, _Senator_ ," she mutters, though she'd really like to call him something ruder than that. He strides past her with a smile that looks all too satisfied for someone who is literally about to crawl into the garbage to go look for a dead body.

"There's even a ladder," Bellamy says, looking in. "It's like the Force meant for me to come."

"That's not how the Force works," Clarke says, though he's definitely not listening.

Miller goes first. Clarke lets Bellamy squeeze into the chute and start climbing down the rungs after him until she crawls in as well. She casts one last look on the group waiting for them in the kitchen and finds that all the faces looking back at her are a mixture of perplexed, amused, and resigned. Which is fair.

"This is the worst thing I've ever done for the good of my planet," Miller announces.

"You can change your mind and let me do this on my own," Clarke says in a singsong voice, even though at this point it'd be difficult to let them climb up the ladder past her.

"I am absolutely not letting you two wreak havoc without me," he says.

"Okay Bellamy," Clarke tells the metal chute in front of her face. She's trying not to breathe in the trash fumes too much, but a little bit is inevitable when she has to speak. There's not even any garbage in sight, just a long chute that goes on forever into darkness. It's like the smell's imbued in the metal. "Now that you're in the fucking garbage chute, will you _please_ tell me how to get to Diana's apartment?"

"Fourteen floors under ours," Bellamy says immediately. "And one to the right."

"That's not bad," Clarke says. She counts floors in her head as they descend until Bellamy calls for Miller to stop.

"This is fourteen," he says. "Can you tell if there's anyone in the apartment?"

Clarke reaches out with her mind Force, searching for a life signature for the Force to pool around. She finds nothing, and tells him as much.

"Here goes nothing," Bellamy says, and pries open the door in front of them. Clarke remains on edge even when they emerge into a silent apartment whose lights flicker on at their presence.

Clarke cautiously taps her commlink.

"We're next door to Sydney's place," she tells Raven quietly.

"Cool," Raven responds instantly. "Be safe. I'm trying to slice into your building's security and see if I can find you cameras or a guest sign-in or something."

"I wouldn't sign-in if I were going to murder someone," Clarke mutters.

"You'd be surprised," Raven responds, with the air of someone who has had enough run-ins with Coruscant's underworld. Clarke lets it lie. She checks the Force again, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease, but there's still no one there. Something feels wrong, though. She doesn't know what it is, only that it's near. For a moment she considers mentioning it to Raven or the others, but only Lincoln would understand, and she's afraid he'd tell them to back off and call someone more experienced. Clarke can't do that. Anya trusted her to be able to handle it.

Clarke and Miller tiptoe through the apartment, their respective weapons held at the ready, keeping Bellamy between them by unspoken agreement. They reach the balcony in silence, looking to their right where Diana Sydney was apparently murdered today.

She wordlessly helps Bellamy climb onto the balcony railing, tapping his chin from beneath as a silent suggestion not to look down at the dizzying drop to Coruscant's surface. There's another, wider balcony that juts out two stories beneath them, but only she'd emerge uninjured from a drop like that. A thin ridge runs from balcony to balcony, barely as wide as the length of their feet. Clarke goes first, pressing her back to the building and edging along slowly. She gathers the Force around them, putting a light pressure on Bellamy's chest to keep him hugging the wall, but she barely needs to help him. Miller follows, unexpectedly agile despite the armour and the arsenal he's wearing. It's a windless night, thank the Force, and they're both sure on their feet. They drop silently to Diana's balcony. The door is wide open.

Clarke still can't sense anyone inside, so she gestures for the boys to follow her in. The apartment is dark and silent as they creep through it, lit only by the light of billboards streaming in through the huge glass windows. Clarke strains every sense, but the Force is the one to guide her to the spot where a dark stain still remains on a luxurious carpet. She shivers as she stands over it.

"What's wrong?" Bellamy asks. She doesn't know how to explain it to him. It feels like a tangle in the Force - or a tear, or both at once. Violent deaths leave echos that take lifetimes to fade. Some part of Diana Sydney is still caught here, a sliver of pain and terror trapped in a loop. Clarke remembers her haughty sneer from just a few hours ago, as she stood on her platform in the Senate and taunted her and Bellamy. It's nearly impossible to hate her for it after reliving the echo of her final moments.

And there's - there's something else.

"It wasn't a blaster," Clarke says. Her whole body feels as though she's been caught in an icy rainfall. She turns to Bellamy and grabs his hand, seeking some kind of reassurance against the fear that suddenly threatens to overtake her. "Guys, it wasn't a blaster. This was - "

"What?" Bellamy presses as she breaks off, turning her head sharply. Miller jerks his rifle up immediately, peering through the scope for a target he can't see.

"Shh," Clarke says, pushing Bellamy behind her and putting both hands on her lightsaber. He falls silent and she hears him click the safety off his blaster. For a heartbeat they hang suspended in a breathless, motionless moment. Clarke's eyes are searching every darkened corner of the room, every space large enough to hide a threat.

The gossamer curtains shiver in the windless night. Clarke powers on her lightsaber a split second before a matching red beam hums to life halfway through a violent downward swing towards her head. Clarke spits out a curse as she parries the slash with a horizontal block - her opponent is stronger than her and tries to force their joined lightsabers down before pulling away.

Miller fires his blaster, once, twice, and the blood red lightsaber spins to deflect the bolts. Clarke has to lunge to knock them away from Bellamy's direction, and then she's too late to react as their opponent throws one palm out and Miller goes flying across the apartment. His body slams against the far wall and then he slides down it and crumples in a heap.

"Miller!" Bellamy yells. He moves to run to his guard. Clarke tosses her lightsaber to her other hand and then throws that arm back to stop him.

"Stay behind me," she says breathlessly, not taking her eyes off their attacker. "Please, Bellamy, stay close."

Behind her, he lets out a streak of foul words that would give her Duchess mother a heart attack, but he stays. Thank the Force, for the first time since they've met, he listens to her.

"Who are you?" Bellamy demands. "What do you want from Arkadia?"

The darksider huffs with what might be a laugh, but doesn't answer.

Clarke takes in her enemy by the illumination of their blades. Her opponent is hooded in tattered black robes and wreathed in darkness, a yawning emptiness in the Force where they should be. Anya has always said that the Dark Side is decay, and Clarke can feel it, knows if she looked into it too long that she'd never walk away the same. The edges of her perception are unraveling. She focuses on the darksider's stance, the pointed lead foot, the reverse-grip as they spin their hilt around, because if she doesn't she will lose to her terror.

Since she was a child practicing her forms in the Temple’s gentle sunlit courtyards, Clarke has always preferred Ataru's light-footed, acrobatic style to the others. She never could defeat Anya through sheer strength, but she’s agile, and she’s cunning. She knows how to take advantage of her environment and use the Force to vault high over her opponents and strike from unexpected angles.

But Ataru is not an option here, not in the apartment’s enclosed space, laden with obstacles. Not with Bellamy at her back, not with Miller unconscious or worse. Clarke can’t leave the boys defenseless, not even if a chance for a devastating blow arises.

Soresu is defense-heavy, focused on small steps and flexible wrist movements to deflect blows. It’s not Clarke’s favourite, but in the single second that the darksider gives her to evaluate the situation, she decides it’s her best shot at keeping them alive long enough to get out of this. She drops into a low crouch for Soresu’s opening stance, her weight on her back foot, the pale blue of her saber held back with one hand. She can't pinpoint Bellamy in the Force, not exactly, too unsettled by the horrifying, rippling void where the darksider stands, but she feels his hand brush across her shoulder to let her know he's just behind her. She steps sideways, the darksider mirroring her as they sketch out a wary circle in the middle of the floor. With every step Clarke brings her and Bellamy a little closer to Miller.

When the darksider attacks again, there is barely any warning. Clarke steps forward with her back foot, putting her dominant side between the darksider's attack and Bellamy. The darksider brings their lightsaber across Clarke's chest in a wild two-handed swing and she spins her blade instantly in response, deflecting the slash and flicking their arm away. They don't back off after the first attack this time, instead coming back with a flurry of rapid jabs and aborted swings, trying to get past Clarke's defense. The sound of her breathing comes harsh over the low hum of their lightsabers and Bellamy's footsteps behind her.

Clarke grits her teeth as the darksider doubles down on a particularly violent downward swing and breaks from Soresu just long enough to aim a kick at her opponent's knee. Anya would strongly disapprove of her throwing such a move into a defensive form, saying that she's dishonoring the entire philosophy of Soresu, but Clarke can hardly regret it when it catches the darksider unaware and their leg buckles under them.

They spring apart, the darksider with a slight limp that improves after a few steps backwards, and Clarke retreating to be Bellamy's shield again. She's breathing heavier than she should be, her pulse racing with a fear she doesn't feel in training matches.

Just then, the commlink on Clarke's collar beeps shrilly. The darksider freezes with their blazing red lightsaber held out ahead.

"Clarke?" Raven asks. "Clarke, have you found anything? You're being kinda quiet."

Bellamy reaches over Clarke's shoulder and plucks the commlink off her lapel. Clarke is, simultaneously, glad she won't have to shift her focus or a hand off her lightsaber, and kind of aggravated that he just _does that_. It's _her_ commlink.

"A Sith," he says into it gruffly. "We found a Sith."

"You're fucking kidding?" Raven asks immediately. Bellamy responds, but Clarke's attention is divided.

The darksider makes a furious snarling noise and stops in their tracks, head swiveling back and forth between the fight and the balcony doors. 

"Don't you dare," Clarke murmurs, and throws her palm forward, _reaching_ for one of Diana Sydney's bejeweled couches. The Force is eager to come to her aid and hurtles it through the air with enough momentum to knock the darksider sideways. They stumble, and Clarke hears a dull roar in her ears, echoing in her skull. The darksider's anger rolls over her like a cloying wave, as heavy as a physical blow, and Clarke shivers. Behind her, Bellamy is whispering to Raven in a low murmur she doesn't stop to decipher. The darksider is already picking themselves off the floor.

Clarke reaches, teeth bared, picking little glass statues off of Diana Sydney's coffee table with the Force and smashing them on the darksider's head, but it doesn't slow them down. She uses the Force to yank at the bloodstained carpet under their feet. The darksider just somersaults over her trap, landing closer to the open balcony door. Before Clarke can do anything more to stop them, the darksider leaps onto the balcony ledge. They spin around to face Clarke and let themselves fall backwards, arms outstretched as if offering themselves for sacrifice to the dizzying heights of Coruscant's glitter and grime.

As soon as they're gone, Bellamy runs to check on Miller, almost tripping over himself in his haste. Clarke looks, agonizing, between him and the empty balcony.

"He's alive," Bellamy says breathlessly. "Go! We'll be fine, go!"

Her official orders, until she gets new ones, are to protect Bellamy. A good Jedi would stay and make sure he and Miller are safe. But the arrival of a darksider - a  _Sith_ \- has changed all the rules of the game. Clarke's limbs shake with fear and adrenaline, but if she lets the darksider get away, then they will have failed Wells. The Senate needs proof. She makes her decision in a split second.

Clarke takes a deep breath and follows the darksider off the edge of the balcony. She takes the two-story drop to the next balcony easier than a non-Jedi would, but it still rattles her knees and knocks all the breath out of her. The darksider is at the other end, their tattered robes whipping around their legs in the wind. Clarke drops into another opening stance with a growing fear that she's going to die here, on this balcony. Clarke can feel the contempt seeping off the darksider, crawling up her spine. It feels like a sickness, or a rot, or a cold seeping into her bones. 

For a moment, they are both silent and unmoving. Even the Force stills.

And then blue and red clash together once again, their lightsabers humming between them, sparks flying and burning bright on the balcony's smooth tile before extinguishing. Clarke fights with everything she can, but the darksider is ready to counter every strike she tries, ready to singe her robes for every mistake she makes. She's too exhausted for her usual Ataru counterattacks and even in their most grueling practice duels Anya was never  _this_ brutal with her.

This isn't a fight Clarke can win. 

She knows it even before the darksider tears her lightsaber out of her hands and it goes flying across the balcony, the hilt clattering as it rolls along the tile further and further away. Clarke gasps for breath, her lungs burning with exertion, her eyes watering with frustration and the sting of the wind. She raises her hands too late to stop the violent Force push the darksider gives that sends her over the railing of the balcony. Clarke catches the edge with her fingertips and whimpers at the yank in her shoulders as the rest of her body dangles over open air. The rough edge of the railing scrapes at her palms as she tries to claw a better hold on it. 

The darksider takes their time prowling closer as Clarke struggles to hold on. Around and below her, Coruscant's airspeeder traffic continues at a breakneck pace, distant honking and holo-ads just audible over the rush of blood in her ears.

"Not bad," the darksider says in a hoarse female voice. She lets the words linger, before distaste creeps in. "For a half-trained _Jedi_."

This is the part where Clarke's supposed to say something bad-ass before vaulting back onto the balcony, but she's still gasping for air, scrabbling at the railing with scraped fingers. She's exhausted. She can't do this. She lets out a heartbroken, furious sob, her eyes fixed upwards on the approaching darksider.

And then - over the darksider's shoulder, over the blazing red lightsaber raised to end her, she sees Bellamy standing on the balcony two stories up, carefully lining up his blaster. Clarke's breath catches in her throat. 

Bellamy shoots. 

The darksider cries out in pain, dropping her lightsaber and clutching at her shoulder. She pivots around with a furious snarling voice and points a bloody finger at Bellamy.

"No," Clarke says, desperate. "No, not him, you can't - "

A bright bolt of white-blue lightning bursts from the darksider's fingertip and strikes Bellamy in the chest. Clarke hears herself scream as his body convulses and the blaster drops from his hand. If he makes any sound, he's too far away to hear. Clarke can only watch helplessly as his knees buckle and he falls off the ledge as limp as a ragdoll.

The darksider meets her eyes again. 

"Yes," she says softly as Bellamy's body falls past them into Coruscant's yawning depths. "I can."

Clarke stares up at the yellow eyes underneath the tattered hood. And she lets go of the railing. 

Bellamy falls slower than she does, his limbs splayed and his fancy Senate coat billowing in a valiant effort to slow his fall. His eyes are closed, his face slack. Clarke reaches him in a heartbeat and they collide in midair, knocking the last of the air out of her. She wraps her arms around his torso and holds tight before the wind can snatch him away. She can't breathe with the air rushing past them and into her face, with the terror squeezing her ribcage. She buries her face in his collar and sobs for air, finds some shelter from the rushing wind there. Her noses brushes metal. 

She jerks back, and looks at the commlink he stole from her earlier, now clipped onto his lapel. 

 _Raven_ , Clarke thinks, and in the Force, she finds a warm, familiar glow. Clarke peers through the tears in her eyes, and sees the airspeeder traffic lane they're about to fall into. She hears Anya's voice in her memories, telling her to trust the Force. Clarke closes her eyes, and reaches out,  _pulling_ with all the strength she has left.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for a literal ~~cliff~~ balcony-hanger?
> 
> Cage and Maya are [Zygerrians](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Zygerrian), a race of cat-like assholes with a history of trafficking other species. I've made Mount Weather a city-fortress on the planet Zygerria.
> 
> [Porgs](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Porg) are those adorable bird-thing creatures that we met in The Last Jedi. I don't know if porg-brain is a canon insult, whatevs.
> 
> [Soresu](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Form_III/Legends) and [Ataru](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Form_IV/Legends) are lightsaber forms 3 and 4, respectively. Ataru is for jocks; it's aggressive, flashy as fuck, has lots of backflips, etc. Soresu is incredibly defensive; originally designed to deflect blaster fire and 'provide maximum defensive coverage', Obi-Wan's later duels are good examples. It prioritizes survival over victory. Seemed fitting. You can read up (way more than you will ever need) on lightsaber combat [here](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Lightsaber_combat/Legends). Soresu youtube example [here](https://youtu.be/WPr-T1xcLJo?t=13), Ataru youtube example [here](https://youtu.be/sVUXImZOq20?t=15), **both video links have major flashing lights**. I'm not an expert on lightsaber combat, though it's really interesting to me, but I did my best translating it into text. If by some weird coincidence you ARE an expert on lightsaber combat, omg, please message me on [tumblr](http://kindclaws.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks for reading! I really, really _really_ want to hear your guesses on who the darksider is, and/or what you think will happen next.


	4. emotional involvement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** some classic Star Wars limb amputation. (it is probably Not who you think it is.)

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Light. A white-blue crackle that snaps across his field of vision. A deep breath, taken to brace for impact, halted halfway.

His eyes snap open. The light is too bright, but golden, not blue. Sheets underneath his twitching fingertips. The smell of chemical cleaners. Someone is shouting behind a closed door. He thinks he should know what is going on, but he's trapped. He raises a hand weakly and bats at the wires and monitors that hem him in. A med droid leans over him, but he's not listening to its voice.

The shouting next door. He knows it. He wheezes painfully. He should be there, in the middle of it, doing something. Not thinking about the lightning. Not the impact.

" -arke," he croaks over the med droid's protestations.

The door slams open, and there she is, striding towards him, eyes blazing and shoulders tense with anger. There is a robed figure in the doorway behind her, and Bellamy feels dread curl cold fingers around his spine. Clarke reaches his side and her eyes soften as her hand brushes some hair out of his eyes. How long has it been? His skin still feels clammy. He must need a shower. There's something in her eyes. Bellamy forces his blurry gaze to focus on it. Guilt, maybe.

"I'm so glad you're awake," she says.

Behind her, the robed figure glides over the threshold.

"He can consent now," the figure says. The med droid chirps indignantly. "Let us transport - "

"He is in _no_ position to consent," Clarke snaps, turning around and planting herself between Bellamy and the figure. He has a flash of memory. A night lit by neon signs and the headlights of air speeders. The balcony. Clarke, scrambling to keep her hold on the railing. The lightning that came for him. He feels so cold. "And if he were, he would be vehemently opposed. He doesn't trust us now, and he never will if you do this."

Well.

Bellamy's not going to let them decide what to do with him. If the problem is that he's awake, he can fix that. He stops fighting so hard to keep his head above water, and lets himself sink back into a dreamless sleep.

 

...........

 

The next time he wakes, he feels a little bit less like a reanimated corpse. Clarke is alone nearby.

Bellamy lets his head fall to the side to look at her without straining his neck. She's seated in a chair by the door, knees spread, forearms braced against them, head bowed. The usually pristine braided crown around her head is a little lopsided. If she's trying to meditate, it doesn't look like she's doing a very good job. Her eyes are open but lightyears away, the now-familiar furrow between her eyebrows betraying unhappy thoughts. The lightsaber hilt skims her fingertips as it spins loosely between her splayed fingers, aimlessly, indecisively, like a compass trapped in a magnetic anomaly with no way home.

"Clarke," he says hoarsely.

She's on her feet in an instant, the lightsaber snapping to her dominant hand, before she hooks it back on her belt and strides towards his bed.

"This is..." he starts.

"Your apartment in the Senate, yes," she finishes, and it doesn't feel like she plucked that thought from his head. He relaxes slightly and looks around. He didn't register his surroundings the last time he woke, but he recognizes the ridiculous chandelier overhead, the couches, the finery. He's lying in a portable hospital bed set up in the living room, the med droid powered down and charging its batteries on the other side. Bellamy looks further and realizes the blanket-covered lump on the couch is Miller. Clarke follows his gaze.

"He's doing well. I'll wake him if you say the word. But he's barely slept since you fell, and honestly, I think he needs the rest," she says.

"Let him sleep," Bellamy answers, leaning back into his pillows now that he knows where his friend is. "He didn't get much during Azgeda's blockade, either. How long has it been? What have I missed?"

"A day and a half. I don't know how much you heard earlier..."

"You were angry at someone who isn't me," Bellamy says, and he's pleased to see a weak smile crack the flat line of her mouth.

"Well," Clarke says, ducking her head. She pauses for a moment, watching Miller instead of meeting his eyes. Her hand waves absentmindedly, and the blanket around Miller's shoulders tucks itself more securely. The gesture unsettles Bellamy, but not for the reasons it would have a few days ago. He's just never thought of the Force as something so... small, and casual. He knows only damage reports and rumours and holodramas where Jedis bring down entire cities around them. He blinks away the afterimage of forked lightning. 

"The Sith?" he asks. 

"She got away," Clarke says flatly. "We have no leads on where she is, but the Council has sent Jedi to every corner of the universe to search. At least my name's been cleared for Diana Sydney's murder. A traffic droid caught our duel on camera and, naturally, it was on the Holonet before we could do anything about it."

"Are people panicking?" Bellamy asks. Clarke scrunches up her face.

"The Council is. The rest of Coruscant? Barely. Part of it is our fault. It's been centuries since the Sith died out, and only the Jedi really remember the havoc a rogue Force-user could cause," Clarke says. She's speaking quickly, agitated, combing one hand through her tangled hair. She's not looking at him. Bellamy forces himself to exhale and relaxes his hands where they've gathered fistfuls of the blanket over his legs. "People are treating it like a particularly exciting Holodrama. You've become the most popular senator overnight, by the way."

"Oh?" Bellamy says, still catching up with her sentences. "I don't know if I like the sound of that."

"Every single screen I walk past has a loop of you storming into a lightsaber fight with a blaster, robes billowing in the wind, the whole deal."

"There goes any chance I had of being taken seriously in the Senate," Bellamy says with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"On the contrary. Everyone's very impressed," Clarke says quickly, and when they make eye contact it lasts entirely too long for comfort. Bellamy pulls his mental shields closer to himself and pushes through the weight of her gaze.

"What about the arguing?" he asks, switching his train of thought. "I woke up for a minute, and you were arguing with someone."

Clarke narrows her eyes with such anger that Bellamy briefly wonders if the rumours that Jedi can set things on fire with their eyes is true. Almost instantaneously, the fury on her face is buried by... _fear_?

"The Council tried to bring you into the Temple for medical treatment, and I refused, since, you know - " Clarke gestures uncomfortably, and Bellamy can't stop the way his eyes flicker shut in relief. "So we compromised on borrowing a med droid. Then they tried making me leave you to deliver my report at the Temple, and I refused, and then they tried to take me off the assignment, and I refused that too - "

"What?" Bellamy asks, alarmed.

"If you want someone else, I'll step down," Clarke says quickly, staring at the floor. Everything about her posture is screaming _don't send me away_. Bellamy is getting a headache just looking at her.

"No," Bellamy says, and he's surprised by how much he means it, how horrified he is by the thought of doing this without her, of having some other faceless Jedi take her place. "No, I don't want someone else. Absolutely not. Why are they trying to remove you?"

Clarke is still staring at the floor. He thinks she might be shaking. Her jaw is rigid.

"Clarke," he asks. It might be the gentlest he's ever said her name.

"The Council fears that I have become too emotionally involved with this mission," Clarke says through gritted teeth. She is definitely shaking, no question about it now.

"What?" Bellamy asks again, still not getting it.

After an eternity, she drags her gaze up off the floor and looks at him again. 

"Senator Echo made her report to Azgeda's queen," Clarke says in a broken voice. "And yesterday afternoon, Azgeda launched a ground invasion on Arkadia. They have Wells and Anya."

The machines monitoring Bellamy's vitals detect enough of a spike in his heartrate that the med droid automatically wakes up and leaves its charging port. He sits up to get rid of the pressure on his ribcage that feels like something sitting on his chest, and when that doesn't work, starts clawing at the wires attached to him. 

"Bellamy, Bellamy, wait, no - " Clarke says, her voice strained as she tries to grabs his hands in hers.

"No, no," he mumbles, shaking his head, trying to shake the dull ringing sound out of his ears. "No - "

"Shit, Bellamy - " Miller says, suddenly on his other side, grabbing at his shoulder. Between him and Clarke, they wrestle Bellamy back onto the bed and speak softly to him until his breathing slows. 

"I'm sorry for waking you up," Bellamy says to Miller several minutes later. 

"Ah, it was time," Miller says, shrugging one shoulder and looking at the floor. Clarke is quietly crying on his other side. Bellamy closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see her like that, and he's not sure which one of them considers it a greater kindness.

"When's the next Senate meeting?" he asks hoarsely, after another lengthy pause broken only by Clarke sniffling and quietly asking how Miller's healing. 

"In about an hour," Miller says. 

"Lincoln was here earlier, but he left to go prepare for it," Clarke adds.

"I need to be there," Bellamy says, staring at the ceiling. 

"You got electrocuted by an evil Jedi and fell off the tallest building on Coruscant two days ago," Miller points out.

“Not a Jedi!” Clarke corrects sharply.

"I’m not dead yet," Bellamy retorts to Miller. “So help me get to that meeting.”

 

 

...........

 

 

Clarke has never known the Force in the Jedi Council chamber to be anything but still and calm, like a pool of the deepest water, its surface eternally undisturbed by any perturbation.

For the first time in her life, she feels a whisper of urgency here, the brush of uncertainty there. There are fewer bodies in the crescent-moon row of seats than usual, many of them filled with blue hologram equivalents of Masters sent off-world to investigate potential Sith leads in other systems, and without their physical presence the chamber feels huge and looming. Suddenly there are echos. Suddenly there is room for shadows. 

Clarke stands at the center, her hands clasped behind her back. The picture of dutiful Padawan obedience. All together, hologram and flesh, they watch the video feed that loops over and over like a death knell tolling the Jedi Order's demise. Clarke hasn't shown Bellamy this video yet. She thinks it's inevitable that he will see it, since it's playing on nearly every screen in Coruscant, blown up on billboards and projected onto buildings, but she's not sure she wants to be there when he sees it.

 

 

...........

 

 

Bellamy walks up the stairs to the Senate building slower than he's ever scaled stairs in his life. It's only Miller's iron grip on his arm that keeps him standing upright through the pounding in his head and the dizzy haze that blots out his vision.

"Come on old man," Miller mutters under his breath.

"Fuck off," Bellamy snips.

"Honestly the Sith lady did you a favour," Miller says, his tone a little too light. Bellamy lets him keep going. Miller's allowed to make these jokes. Bellamy knows what he's saying, underneath.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, breathless through his headache.

"Yeah. She made you as old on the outside as you are on the inside."

"Fuck you."

"You're still beautiful though. You've got that going for you. You'll only come across as a geriatric asshole on video, in a still photo you won't look a day over 24."

"I will leave you on Coruscant," Bellamy threatens. He is wheezing too hard to make a more descriptive threat. He stops in his tracks on the stairs, and tries not to let his relief show when he sees they're only a few more steps from the top. Other Senators are arriving in droves, all passing them by, craning their necks to look at the straggler, but Bellamy and Miller are both wearing their hoods for a reason.

"Almost there," Miller says, serious again. "We'll take a lift to the chamber."

"I'm fine," Bellamy says, and he's a good enough liar that it could almost be the truth.

 

 

...........

 

Once more, the Council lets the video play out. It was taken by a traffic droid that noticed the disturbance and flew closer for a better look, so it's a little grainy, but it's not hard to make out the clash of lightsabers, the brilliant blood-red beam that drives Clarke to the edge of the balcony and disarms her. Clarke feels her heart quicken in her chest as she watches her own body shoved over the railing with the Force, watches herself scramble for a handhold as the darksider - the _Sith_  - stalks closer. The Council chamber is very, very quiet as the traffic droid swivels to capture Bellamy's arrival on the ledge two stories above them, the blaster shot he gets off. Clarke has watched it several times now, but every single time she has to struggle not to react as the Sith blasts lightning out of her hand so bright that the traffic droid's camera momentarily whites out. It is the smallest of mercies, that she doesn't have to see it strike Bellamy in the video as clearly as she saw it the first time. It was awful enough, only once, and she doesn't even like him. 

His body falls, and in the video it happens faster than Clarke thought it happened in real life. This is the part she doesn't want Bellamy to see. The part where she screams as he falls, the desperation. The way she lets go of the railing and lets herself fall after him scarcely seconds later, like it was the only option even remotely worth acting upon.

 

 

...........

 

 

Miller gets him to the Senate chamber without letting him pass out, somehow. Bellamy ducks into the alcove of his platform and takes a seat, resting while the swell of conversation in the Senate chamber beyond him grows and grows.

"You sure about this?" Miller asks, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Bellamy just nods, conserving his breath, and braces his face in his hands. 

 

 

...........

 

 

Their combined bodies fell faster than the traffic droid could go after them. The pixelated blur of Bellamy's billowing coat vanishes into a pinprick as the droid hastily follows.

By the time it catches up, Clarke and Bellamy have already crash-landed in the backseat of Raven's air-speeder as softly as she could manage in mid-air. Raven is driving with one hand, barely paying attention to the traffic around her as she cranes over her shoulder to check on them. Clarke is practically in Bellamy's lap, her hands cradling his face, his throat, as she searches for a pulse, and hides her face in the lapels of his coat in relief as she finds a weak, fluttering heartbeat.

In the Jedi Council chamber, Clarke's cheeks flame red with embarrassment at the frantic display of emotion, so permanently captured on video, so nakedly displayed and gawked at both inside and outside of the council chamber.

Master Luna pauses the video before they get to the part where the traffic droid immediately tries to charge them for stunt driving. For a moment, uncomfortable silence hangs in the chamber. Clarke is certain her breathing is far, far too loud. 

 

 

...........

 

 

Chancellor Titus calls for the meeting to begin, and doesn't succeed in reining in the chaos that ensues as dozens of Senators squabble to make their grievances first. Bellamy lurks in the shadows of his platform, where he remains hidden.

Azgeda's Senator, Echo, is already in the thick of the discussion. Bellamy examines the hard line of her cheekbones, the pale markings denoting her clan loyalty, the way she argues with her whole body, leaning forward with her hands slammed down on the dashboard of her platform as she makes a rebuttal.

If Bellamy gets his way, Azgeda won't such a sway over the Senate the next time he returns.

Bellamy has gotten very good at getting his way. 

 

 

...........

 

"Are we certain it was a Sith?"

Clarke sighs tiredly. They've been over this so many times that she's started arguing in her dreams. 

"I saw her eyes, Master," she says.

"And the lightsaber isn't easy to fake," Jackson says from her other side. Clarke resists the urge to send him a grateful look, but she's certain he already knows he's her favourite Council member, aside from... well. Clarke doesn't look at the painfully empty seat to her right, where Master Anya should be sitting.

Masters Gaia and Indra, usually fundamentally opposed on whatever topic is being discussed, are surprisingly united in their stance today. But maybe it shouldn't be so shocking - Gaia's talent is seeing doom and destruction in every minor galactic dispute, and Indra doesn't trust anything outside of the Order, and especially not Force-users outside of it. Clarke had barely started her apprenticeship with Anya when Lincoln left the Order for a life in politics, but she heard the rumours. She doesn't think Indra has ever recovered from his departure. 

"If the Sith have truly returned," Gaia says, "Then there is another. There are always two."

"We should be searching Azgeda for the master," Indra urges. 

"What makes you so sure Clarke encountered the apprentice?" Luna retorts, having apparently decided it's her turn to be the contrary one.

"Clarke is talented," Jackson says tactfully, "But she _is_ still a Padawan. The fact that she was able to hold her own against the darksider for so long points towards a more powerful Sith acting behind the scenes."

"Or perhaps she didn't encounter a Sith at all," Luna argues. "A touch of darkness does not mean pure evil, and we all know there are exiles - "

"She tried to murder Senator Blake," Clarke interrupts. All eyes fix disapprovingly on her. She swallows. "Just for trying to stop a war on his planet."

The Council chamber erupts into more arguing, and Clarke stares at the floor for as long as she can bear to keep quiet. 

 

 

...........

 

 

Bellamy listens to Echo lie as long as he can stand it, and then he steps into the lit portion of his platform. Stunned whispers originate around him, and roll over the Senate chamber like ripples from a pebble, growing into waves that crash over the current disputes at the room's center.

He taps his microphone, and opens his mouth to speak.

 

 

...........

 

 

"The Sith could be anywhere," Clarke argues. "We have no idea where to start looking for her. We don't know what we're up against. What we _do_ know is that it has something to do with Azgeda, that there's something they want from Arkadia. That's where you should be sending missions."

"Padawan - " Gaia warns sternly. 

"My Master is being held hostage there," Clarke continues, her anger having boiled too long to be quieted now. "One of our own. One of _you_. Why aren't we going to help her? Why aren't we trying to get her and Prince Wells out of there?"

"Padawan!" Indra shouts, apparently having reached the end of her fuse faster than her daughter. 

"We are not going to make a hasty decision," Luna warns in her low, melodic voice.

"Hasty?" Clarke asks, whirling on her. "Hasty! It's been two days! You sent us there to investigate Azgeda for sentient rights violations, and I came back with proof, with testimony, and - "

"Clarke!" Jackson says, standing up and striding forward. He grabs her arm, not painfully but not leaving her any way out without a more violent response than he deserves. He bends his head and speaks quietly in her ear. "You need to leave. You are not making a good case for yourself. Meditate while we discuss, and return when you're calm."

"I am - " Clarke starts.

" _Go_ ," Jackson says, and it's the worry around his gentle eyes that makes Clarke shut her mouth and obey. Not Indra's fingers clamped on her armrests, not Luna's brooding look, not any of the others. "You're excused, Padawan," he says, loud enough that his voice carries to the others, and Clarke storms out before she starts screaming. The last time Clarke walked through the doors to the Jedi Council, they told her not to start a war.

And she didn't start it, but she failed to stop it, and the distinction doesn't feel significant.

 

 

...........

 

 

"I won't tolerate bickering and stalling while Arkadia is invaded," Bellamy tells the Senate, making no effort to hide the anger seething under his skin. He'll never get a better audience than this, stunned into silence as they are by his entrance and the explosive speech he's pulled no punches in. "This is not what the Senate was meant to be. This is not what we came together for, when our predecessors founded the Republic. Our laws and proceedings weren't put into place to let innocent people die while we waste time arguing about technicalities."

His fists are shaking in the folds of his sleeves. Bellamy can barely see the Senate chamber, just a blur as he pushes through the cold and the exhaustion that's clung to him since he woke up.

"If we can't come together as one, I can't remain here, living in luxury while Azgeda occupies my planet. And I can't let you continue in your indecisiveness, and your indifference," he says. He takes a deep breath, knowing he won't be able to take his next words back, knowing he can't pause long enough to let someone else interject.

 

 

...........

 

 

Lexa is seated against the opposite wall, facing the Council chamber. She leaps to her feet as the doors bang on the wall on either side of Clarke. In the year since Clarke's last seen her, she hasn't changed much. Taller, maybe, still willowy, still beautiful and eternally melancholy. Lexa wouldn't be smiling even if they were reuniting with happier news.

Clarke blinks in surprise at the sight of her, but her mind is whirling with too many other thoughts to slow down her current trajectory. She shakes her head minutely and picks a random direction to storm in, knowing Lexa will keep pace. 

"What have they decided?" she asks Clarke. 

"Nothing useful. We have no chance of finding the Sith, it's a waste of time."

"You want us to sit in the Temple and wait for her?" Lexa asks. 

"No!" Clarke snarls. "I want the Council to send an extraction team to Arkadia. The longer we wait, the longer Wells and Anya are in danger."

"Clarke - " Lexa says, her voice cautious, and it's so like the Council that Clarke stops in her tracks, turning to her peer in complete disbelief. "Clarke, even if they do send a team, you won't be on it."

"What?"

Lexa blinks her wide green eyes and gives Clarke a small, embarrassed smile, like she's letting her in on a joke, like she's doing her a favour. She reaches out, lays a gentle hand on Clarke's shoulder.

"You won't be on that team. Your emotions have taken over you."

Clarke's eyebrows climb higher up her forehead and she inhales sharply, pulling away from Lexa like she's been burned. 

"Anya was your Master too," Clarke says, hurt beyond words. 

"Yes, but - " Lexa starts explaining, but Clarke has nothing left in her to listen. She shakes her head vigorously and turns away. "Clarke!" she calls. "Clarke, the Force - "

Clarke whirls around on her. 

"The Force," she snarls, pronouncing every syllable with deliberate care, "Is telling me to do something. To _try_. But if you can't hear it, you're welcome to sit here and fawn at the Council all you like. _I'm_ going to get our Master back."

And then she runs, leaving Lexa behind in the Temple's beautiful arched hallways with that betrayed look on her pretty face, framed by the golden sunset pouring from the windows. All around Clarke the Force sings with possibility and with doom in equal measure, urging her to flee faster into the evening.

 

 

...........

 

 

"I call for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Titus," Bellamy announces. His amplified voice echoes over every speaker in the Senate chamber, and the words hang heavy in the air for a moment like a sword swung at the peak of an arc. 

"For fuck's sake," Miller mutters behind him as everyone starts yelling all at once.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Jedi Master Anya is meditating on the rhythmic _drip drip drip_ of a water leak in the far corner of her prison cell when she feels a presence enter the atmosphere. Her eyes fly open despite the years of training, and she lets out a quiet hiss, as though in pain. The stump of her right hand aches - it hasn't stopped aching, even with the Force-healing she poured into it - but she swears it aches more now.

In the cell across the hallway, Wells' limp body stirs at the sound, but does not wake. That suits Anya. The prince needs his rest, and he certainly doesn't need to see her agitation. She's painfully aware of her vulnerability. They took her lightsaber first along with the hand that held it, and then her Jedi robes, and then the tiny knives she keeps in her boots. In their absence she feels naked and bare. It's not a feeling familiar to her anymore, not since she took on Padawans. Vulnerability is not a privilege you can afford when a student depends on you for their life and learning.

 _And look how well you managed that_ , Anya tells herself bitterly.

She can't concentrate on meditation anymore, not with the creeping sensation of cold that has sunk into her bones. She stands and paces the cell, her remaining hand rubbing at her opposite arm as though that'll help. The Force prickles at her, once a comforting companion, now something poisoned. Anya turns sharply on her heel and winces at the sensation weighing on her mind. It feels like the scrape of fingernails sounds, like rotting fruit smells, like a wound gone sour. She grits her teeth and pulls the Force closer to her, trying to weave a blanket of light around herself. 

The Sith opens the door to the dungeon with a slam. Wells stirs again, nearly woken by the echoing sound, and behind her back, Anya's fingers twitch, knocking him out with a forceful suggestion. He does not move again. It's the one mercy Anya can give him.

She's pleased to see that the Sith is limping, and her already tattered robes have gained several burnt tears. The Sith storms up to the bars on Anya's cell and wraps pale fingers around them. She fits her face into the gap between two bars and screams at Anya, shaking the door violently with her hands until she finally runs out of air. Through it all, Anya raises her chin haughtily and says nothing as spit lands on her chin and collarbones.

The Sith glowers at the lack of reaction she's gotten. Anya gives in before she can think of seeking a better audience in Wells.

"Are you having a bad day?" Anya asks softly. "Is the Dark Side not playing nice?"

The Sith spits at her. Anya doesn't even blink. Her brown eyes stare into the gold ones outside her door. There are a few tiny ruptured arteries in the whites of the Sith's eyes, and they do little to improve her sickly, crazed appearance. 

"Guess what," the Sith says hoarsely. "I introduced myself to your Padawan."

In an instant Anya's thrown herself at the cell doors, her fist flying through the gap where the Sith's face was mocking her only a fraction of a second before, but the cursed creature is dancing out of reach now, letting out laughter that sounds mad and choked. 

"That got a reaction out of you!" the Sith shrieks with amusement. "What's wrong, Jedi? I thought you aren't supposed to have attachments? No emotions allowed? Are you upset I tried to kill your Padawan? Are you feeling... angry?"

Anya exhales heavily through her nose, glaring at the Sith. 

"I am delighted," she says icily, "To hear that you tried and _failed_ to kill her."

The Sith's laughter fades and she gives Anya a dirty look, apparently irritated that she gave away her failure when she could have lorded it over Anya longer. Inside, hidden under many layers of carefully-crafted distance, Anya feels warm pride for Clarke blossoming in her chest alongside the fear and worry. 

"For all you know, I could have cut off her hand too," the Sith says, nodding at Anya's stump. "Made you two a matching set."

"I appreciate your flair for design," Anya says coldly. The Sith _hmphs_ at her, unsatisfied by her gloating. She drags one last finger, lingering, down one of Anya's cell bars, and then spins on her heel. The Force rattles every door in the dungeon in its hinges as she departs, like a vengeful wind. Now that she is finally alone again, Anya's knees shake and give out beneath her. She crumples in the cell, all the breath leaving her lungs, and cradles the aching stump of her arm to her chest. 

"Oh, Clarke," she whispers fervently, shutting her eyes and wishing the Force could stretch out further, wishing she could warn the Order of the danger on the horizon, wishing she could know for sure if her steely-eyed Padawan is safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [500 Republica](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/500_Republica) is described by one website as being so tall that it would take you over a minute to fall off of it. _*jazz hands*_ I mistakenly thought it was the residence of most Senators, but apparently that's [a different building](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Senate_Apartment_Complex) and it's too late to change it now. _*embarrassed jazz hands*_
> 
> So uh, Jedi hierarchy 'n stuff:  
> Children under the age of like, 9-14ish are commonly referred to as younglings, they live and study in the Temple. Different bits of SW canon vary outrageously on what age younglings become Padawans. I'm putting it, very loosely, at like, 11-13 years old, idk. Canon also varies on when Padawans are done Padawan-ing. Obi-Wan was still a Padawan in his early twenties and that was apparently quite late, but he also started training late, so idk. Padawans become Jedi Knights if/when they complete their Trials. The majority of adult Jedi will remain Knights for the rest of their lives. They become Jedi Masters if they get a seat on the Jedi Council.
> 
> Since my loyalty to timelines and both canons is pretty handwave-y anyway, I think it's fine if Clarke is like, 19 or 20 years old and just about finished her training. Lexa is Anya's previous Padawan, as a nod to her being Anya's 'second' in canon. Anya took Clarke as Padawan immediately after she finished training Lexa, who has to be a few years older than their canon age gap to make that work, or maybe she started Padawan-ing very young. Fuck if I know/care. No one get salty about Lexa in the comments pls, her appearances will be minor and she's firmly onboard the Jedi philosophy train ie 'love is weakness' >> 'love is the gateway drug to murder'.
> 
> AS AN ASIDE it was very difficult to pick characters from The 100 to be Jedi because basically everyone in The 100 is like, _all murder all the time_ , and the Jedi are like, _no stabby stab allowed._ I did my best. Jedi are also not really supposed to have kids, but Indra had Gaia anyway because Indra does what she wants. I've decided Lincoln was one of Indra's Padawans because that moment in season 2 where she sneaks him a knife hurt my feelings. 
> 
> The usual thanks for reading + I'm on tumblr as [kindclaws](http://kindclaws.tumblr.com/).


	5. running the blockade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** ...Octavia

 

**ARKADIA, FOUR YEARS AGO**

 

The first test Bellamy is given as one of Prince Wells’ new interns is to hire a head of security. The final choice isn’t up to him, of course; Bellamy knows from the very start that his suggestion will be merely that – a suggestion. This is a job interview for _him_ as much as it is for the applicants. He’s handed a stack of pre-approved resumes and retreats to a distant corner of the palace gardens to read through them.

The first time he reads them without judgement, merely to form a benchmark. The second time he starts to form piles: the obvious shoo-ins and the obvious disasters. The third time he scraps those piles and starts to pick at the faintest details, looking for reasons to change his mind. There are two strong contenders that Bellamy is sure the other interns will pick. Colonel Lovejoy did mercenary work in his youth before joining the military and specifically lists protection detail in his past. Each one of his references is real and up-to-date. Bellamy calls them up one by one and makes polite inquiries into a man who seems genuinely devoted to his work. Colonel Shumway, on the other hand, brings with him an extra decade of military experience. He was a young officer during the Azgedan blockades of Bellamy’s childhood, but a certain ruthlessness carried him up the ladder quickly. The majority of the other applicants blend into a faceless blur of competent, non-descript middle-aged white men. All of them would adequately keep Wells safe.

But Bellamy’s attention keeps returning to the outlier of the applicant pile. Lieutenant Miller is Bellamy’s age – a solid twelve years younger than the next youngest applicant, and his resume has a damning three year gap. It only takes a few careful inquiries for Bellamy to get his hands on Miller’s prison record. Jailed for thievery. During Miller’s three years in jail he got two things of note: a broken rib in a fist fight defending a fellow inmate, and a diploma in literature and philosophy. Bellamy considers the evidence carefully and makes his choice.

Prince Wells calls him into his office the next morning. Bellamy debates whether or not to gel his hair for an hour before hand and decides not to mostly because he runs out of time. His palms are clammy as he stands in front of Wells’ desk and tries not to glare as the prince reads over his letter of recommendation. This isn’t the first time he’s met Wells, but it is the first time Bellamy has talked with him alone. He keeps looking for reasons to hate Wells, but so far he has been infuriatingly polite.

Wells puts down Bellamy’s letter and folds his hands.

“Bellamy Blake,” Wells muses. His clever brown eyes narrow at Bellamy. “Of all the interns, you’re the only one whose final choice wasn’t either Shumway or Lovejoy. Why Miller?”

“Colonel Shumway has a gambling problem, Sir,” Bellamy answers stiffly. “Although his military record is impressive, his mounting personal debts are a vulnerability that could be manipulated by someone who wanted to compromise your security badly enough. Colonel Lovejoy, on the other hand, would have been a solid choice, but he’s expecting a child soon and has been worrying about his work-life balance recently.”

Wells’ eyes widen slightly, which means that’s news to him. He reassesses Bellamy. It feels like being peeled apart one layer at a time. Bellamy struggles not to squirm. He’s spent his whole life trying to keep under the radar.

“And how did you find these things out, Mr Blake?”

“I talked to their housekeepers,” Bellamy says quietly. Wells laughs at that, light and unexpected. Behind the folds of the ridiculous, rich robes he’s expected to wear as an intern, Bellamy’s hands tighten into fists.

“It’s not a joke, your Highness,” he says, a little sharper than he intends, and then winces. “Resumes only tell part of a story, sir. If you want to know what someone is really like – “

“ – see how they treat their subordinates,” Wells finishes. Not exactly the wording Bellamy was going to use, but probably safer. He grits his teeth and nods and wonders if this is the moment he gets thrown out of the program for failing to show the proper respect to his prince. “I’m impressed,” Wells says instead, to Bellamy’s shock. He taps the letter on his desk twice. “But you didn’t answer why _Miller._ ”

Bellamy stares at him as a dozen inappropriate replies rise in his head. _Because he reminds me of me. Because this job process is a farce and I wanted to mock it. Because he stood out. Because he deserves a chance. Because I don’t know how I bullshitted my way into this and I want an ally._

"The other applicants got their ranks by being in the right place and following orders, sir," Bellamy says flatly. "That might be good enough in peacetime, but in a crisis someone like Lieutenant Miller will do whatever it takes. People with something to prove will always fight harder for you."

"We're in peacetime now," Wells says, tilting his head. 

"And I hope it stays that way," Bellamy replies coolly. He raises his chin. "But the universe doesn't always give us what we want so if it pleases Your Majesty, I'll continue to plan for the worst possible scenario."

Wells is quiet. He assesses Bellamy for long enough that his skin begins to grow warm and itch under the attention.

“Why are you here? What do you want?” Wells asks.

Bellamy looks down at his feet.

“Any one of the applicants would be good enough, your Highness.”

“Thank you for your suggestion, Mr Blake,” Wells says, brisk and business-like once again. If he’s disappointed in Bellamy, he doesn’t show it. “You’re dismissed.”

Two days later Miller is promoted. Two years later, Bellamy is the last intern standing, and Wells has won the trust and loyalty Bellamy never intended to give him. Two more years later, Azgeda returns to blockade Arkadia, and Bellamy is elected as Senator in a desperate, last-minute vote.

Three months after _that_ , Bellamy gets electrocuted by a Sith assassin, kickstarts a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Titus that spirals the entire Senate into chaos, and promptly decides that he’d really like to go take a nap now.

Miller disappears for a few moments while Bellamy is catching his breath and wondering what the _hell_ just possessed him to make that speech. A moment later Miller returns with two suits of armour that definitely do not belong to him. Bellamy raises an eyebrow. He wonders if there are two Senate guards lying unconscious in a supply closet right now who will wake up later in a state of undress, and decides it might be better not to ask.

“Sorry, did you want to deal with everyone’s questions now that you’ve gone and fucked up the Senate?” Miller asks, shaking the blue armour at him. _Definitely better not to ask._

“The Senate was already fucked up,” Bellamy grouses instead as he gets dressed.

“They were happily in denial, that's not the same thing,” Miller says. He finishes putting on his armour first and crosses over to help Bellamy with the disguise. They fit the helmet snugly over Bellamy’s head and exit into the hallway just as the first wave of Senators marches up to Arkadia’s nook to… to do whatever it was they intended to do. Yell at him, probably. Bellamy keeps his head down and leans on Miller as they slip unnoticed through the chaos. The eyes of the powerful slide right over two guards in the background.

By the time they make it outside and Miller flags down a speeder, Bellamy is out of breath and exhausted. Miller helps him limp into the backseat and Bellamy squeezes his wrist in silent gratitude.

“500 Republica, please,” Miller says, leaning forward to give the address of the apartment Bellamy gets as Senator. Bellamy squeezes his wrist again and shakes his head. He _really_ doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. His head is spinning and his knees are shaking and he’s so goddamn cold and he doesn’t have it together. He can’t face the vultures right now, and they’ll come straight to 500 Republica when they realize he slipped out of the Senate building without being caught.

“Raven’s place,” he wheezes to Miller, who quirks his mouth slightly at him but relays the change to the driver anyway. Bellamy leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

Only moments later, Miller elbows him.

“Think you should see this,” he murmurs to Bellamy.

Bellamy reluctantly opens his eyes and follows Miller’s line of sight to a billboard flashing violently neon advertisements at him.

“What?” Bellamy asks tiredly.

“No, _that_ one,” Miller says, and turns his chin towards another billboard just beyond the first. It takes Bellamy a moment to recognize his own silhouette on the video loop.

On the billboard, Bellamy’s recorded counterpart points a blaster at the Sith assassin. A cloud of heart emojis added in by an over-enthusiastic editor bursts out of the barrel, censoring the actual laser bolt he shot. The Sith’s arm flies out and the screen goes as blank and white as fresh fallen snow. Bellamy’s mouth goes dry with the memory of lightning and he didn’t think he could get any colder but he does, it’s sinking into his bones – 

“Bellamy?” Miller asks, his voice low and worried.

He says nothing as he watches his body fall off the balcony, trailed by a swarm of shocked emojis. A heartbeat later, Clarke lets herself fall after him. Bellamy doesn’t breathe as the droid rushes into the void after their free-falling bodies. He makes a soft, choked sound as the camera catches up and his body is lying in the backseat of Raven’s speeder with Clarke in his lap, lightly slapping the sides of his face and tucking her cheek against his chest to listen for his heartbeat.

“Shit,” Miller says. “I guess she likes you after all.”

Bellamy just stares as the video repeats. The flow of traffic carries them onwards until the billboard is out of view and still he doesn’t know what to say.

“She doesn’t like me,” he forces out. There’s a growing headache pulsing behind his temples. He turns away so Miller can’t see him grimace. “She was just doing the job Wells asked her to.”

Wells inspires that in people. He inspires them to throw everything they've got into a duty they didn't even want to begin with. Bellamy ignores Miller’s quiet, unconvinced sound. He knows the truth. People don’t make sacrifices like that for him. They just don't.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Dinnertime finds everyone reunited at Raven's apartment. Raven decides they're all going to have greasy Rodian takeout and sends a droid out to pick some up while she and Miller play a dangerous game of jenga with the pile of scrap metal in the kitchen sink in search of usable plates.

Clarke gingerly takes a seat on the sagging couch next to Bellamy, who has been quiet since Miller brought him in. He keeps massaging one temple as he glances at her.

"How are you feeling?" Clarke asks.

"Tired," he says, and she certainly hears it in his voice. "It's my first time getting electrocuted. Not a fan."

"Force lightning is not just electricity," Clarke says quietly, examining her hands for lack of something to do. "It's darkness, too. It's evil. It's not an ability that any Jedi has. I know - I know you don't trust Jedi. So I didn't let any of them examine you. But if you don't start to feel better soon, you might need a Force-healer."

Bellamy sucks in a rattled breath.

"That doesn't sound good," he says. Clarke shrugs one shoulder uncomfortably. Every interaction with him has been weird since the attack. She's painfully aware of where he is at all times, of the pained and stilted way he moves, of her failure to protect him. "Are you a Force-healer?"

Clarke startles a little at the question coming from so far out of left field. Just days ago, Bellamy was making no effort at all to hide the complete contempt he had for her training, and it's hard for her to set that aside now. She scrutinizes him closely, but it seems to be a genuine question even though he's not quite meeting her eyes. She'll allow him that, she thinks, running her gaze along the bruise-like shadows under his eyes, the tense line of his shoulders.

"I am, actually," she says lightly. "It was what my mother originally gave me to the Order for. I spent my childhood summers on Arkadia with Wells, learning poetry and politics," she says, those last two things pronounced with a hint of exasperation. "Springtime I spent with her on Mandalore, just a few weeks. And the rest of the year I spent with the Jedi Order, helping Master Jackson in the Halls of Healing. And I was pretty good. I did that until I was thirteen."

A crash from the kitchen and Miller's subsequent swearing tells Clarke that his and Raven's quest to find plates and cutlery underneath Raven's dozen half-complete repair projects is not going so well. She waves her hand, and lifts a dismantled droid off the table for them, but she's not really paying attention to Raven's distracted thanks. Bellamy doesn't even turn around to look, his deep brown eyes fixed solely on Clarke's face now.

"What happened when you were thirteen?" he asks.

Clarke shrugs again, not knowing what to make of his sudden interest.

"I picked up a lightsaber," she says.

"That's it?"

"I borrowed another student's for a practice duel," she elaborates, and she can still remember that day in vivid detail. She'd just gotten back from a summer with Wells spent learning how to fence and Coruscant was still warm and humid, the Temple's high stone hallways doing little to keep them cool. Someone had dared her to duel with a practice lightsaber, one turned low enough to deal minor burns instead of amputations, and Clarke has never known how to back down from a challenge. "It sung when I held it," she recalls.

"It sung?" Bellamy asks skeptically, raising his eyebrows. Clarke groans, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips. He's teasing. That's new.

"It's hard to describe. The Force isn't like music. It didn't make a sound. But some things just - they resonate. They begin and they feel right. That's what harmony with the Force feels like," she says, struggling for the right words.

"So you picked up a lightsaber, and the Force gave you a thumbs up," Bellamy says. "Couldn't it have said something earlier? What if you never touched one?"

"I'm sure there's a lot of universes out there where I didn't," Clarke muses. "Universes where I did, but it wasn't meant to be. Universes where I'm not Force-sensitive, and you are. Maybe even universes where we're friends," she jokes.

"You still would have wormed your way into diverting the course of galactic history, somehow. I think that's a constant in every universe," Bellamy says softly. Clarke averts her eyes so she doesn't have to see his intensity. He laughs quietly, and the tension between them relaxes. 

"I'll pretend you mean it as a compliment," Clarke jokes, tucking her Padawan braid behind her ear and leaning into the couch cushion. Bellamy lapses into companionable silence as Clarke helps Raven and Miller set the table, using the Force to drag a stool closer and to distribute cutlery without getting up from the couch.

"I saw the video. From the traffic droid, the video of the duel?" Bellamy says, his voice lilting up into a question at the end. Clarke exhales heavily, and just like that, it's hard to make eye contact again.

"Yeah."

"You saved my life," he says carefully. He opens his mouth and then closes it. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he lets out a heavy exhale. His shoulders slump. "You and Raven. Did you know she was driving to us when you let go of the railing - that she'd be there in time to catch us?"

Clarke winces.

"You didn't," Bellamy guesses.

"It felt right in the Force," she mumbles. It's only partially a lie. She hadn't known Raven was recklessly speeding towards them until they were already plummeting through the sky. She hadn't known if she could land in the backseat of a moving airspeeder without breaking every bone in their bodies. It feels like an unforgivable stroke of luck that they did.

Raven's droid - one of many that she hoards like old women hoard stray lothcats - returns with a pile of steaming takeout boxes, and they all come together for dinner - or breakfast, in Raven's case. Clarke can feel Bellamy's eyes on her, but stands up and busies herself with distributing the food instead of meeting his gaze.

"Honestly, I've never considered tentacles a breakfast food," Miller comments as he uncovers one of the boxes and finds a bubbling stew of suction cups and starchy tubers.

"That's the great thing about working night shifts," Raven says. "Time loses all meaning. I'm not bound by the same rules you mortals are."

Rodia is a swampy planet, and a musky taste lingers underneath the rich spices. Clarke has been to it once with Anya, on a short but memorable mission to investigate reports of pirates boarding Rodian trade ships. They didn't stay long enough to sample the local dishes, but they should have. Clarke finds her appetite showing up quite unexpectedly as she digs into the delicious fried mushrooms and fishy scallops, and trades dipping sauces across the table with Raven.

Bellamy is quiet all through dinner. They all are, even as they murmur pleased compliments about the food and steal bites from each other's containers. It's not a happy meal, it can't be, not with the terrible news that lurks in the backs of all their minds. But it is a respite from an exhausting streak of terrible days, a much needed moment of rest and levity.

At last they're all satisfied. Raven's droids and Clarke's lazy use of the Force make quick work of tidying the table and they sit back in their seats with the weight of an eventful day.

"What do you hope the vote of no confidence accomplishes?" Clarke asks eventually, since no one seems to want to start.

Bellamy sighs heavily and tries to retreat deeper into Raven's couch. It's a doomed quest from the start.

"I have no hopes for anything from the Senate," he says dully. "I failed."

 _So it's going to be that kind of a night._ Clarke swallows hard.

"We all did," she says quietly.

"What was the point of calling for that vote, then?" Raven asks.

"Spite, mostly," Bellamy says flatly. He rubs at his temples. "The chance it'll actually get anything done is small."

"What are we going to do now?" Miller asks.

"My instructions from the Order are to keep guarding Bellamy and, well. _Wait_ , basically. Until Azgeda gives us a ransom demand, or the Senate comes to a decision, or a war is inevitable," Clarke says.

"If I leave Coruscant, are you obligated to stay here?" Bellamy asks.

Clarke gives him a sharp look, but his face is inscrutable. The Force gathers around him like dust in a ray of sunlight, pinpricks of light waiting to be set in motion, holding their breath for some great cue. She knows he has a plan, or the beginnings of one.

"I'm obligated to try to stop you from doing anything stupid," Clarke says carefully. "But right now, the Order and I have very different definitions of what's stupid. If you leave, I'll follow. Because I can't just sit here and wait while Azgeda has Wells and Anya. We have to do _something_."

"Then I know someone who can get us back to Arkadia," Bellamy says grimly.

"Bellamy," Miller warns, and a muscle jumps in Bellamy's jaw. "Is it who I think it is?"

When Bellamy doesn't answer immediately, Clarke and Raven exchange a glance.

"There's only a few people who could get us past Azgeda's blockade," he says eventually, avoiding Miller's glare.

"This is going to blow up in your face," Miller says.

"There is very little that could go more wrong than it already has," Bellamy says.

"Famous last words," Raven says.

"I'll call her," Bellamy says, and the rest of them remain sitting at the table with their worries as he goes into Raven's bedroom and speaks too quietly for Clarke to hear, though she's not trying very hard to eavesdrop.

Raven gives Clarke's hair a goodbye kiss and her shoulder a comforting squeeze and heads off to work as Miller nods off in his chair. Clarke clears some more room on the couch and then lifts Miller up using the Force, gently depositing him there and slipping his blaster rifle out of his arms.

In the bedroom, Bellamy is sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

"Can you heal me?" he asks, with zero warning or preamble.

"Uh," Clarke says. She stalls by sitting next to him, which seems like a great idea until she's there and she can feel the heat of the outside of his thigh pressed against hers, but moving away will be too obvious. "You haven't exactly expressed positive sentiments about me using Jedi abilities on you."

"I know," Bellamy says, all in a rush. "But you said I should get checked out, and honestly, I feel like shit. I feel like I got struck by evil lightning and then fell off a building."

"That's an accurate summary, yeah," Clarke says.

"I need my strength back to save Arkadia," Bellamy says. His hands curl into tight fists and he does not meet her eyes as his shoulders slump and he adds a devastatingly quiet " _Please_."

"Okay," Clarke says slowly. "Well. This will work a lot better if you relax. You have a lot of mental shields, can you relax those a bit? They don't have to be completely down, just a little less... intense."

They negotiate their positions until Clarke and Bellamy are both lying in bed on their backs, trying to relax, trying to ignore the other taking long deep breaths next to them. Bellamy is having more trouble than she is, Clarke thinks. She knows minds are capable of building walls around traumatic memories, but Bellamy has what must be years and years worth of protection around his entire being. He feels like a howling storm, and she can't get close.

"Tell me about Arkadia," she says encouragingly. "Tell me about something that makes you happy."

"That won't get me to relax," Bellamy says through gritted teeth.

"What will?"

"I'm working on it."

Slowly, slowly - the winds begin to abate. The storm in Bellamy's head stops pushing Clarke out so powerfully, and she starts feeling her way through the threads of the Force that surround him. It's not hard to find, once he lets her in. There's a scar in the Force in the center of his chest, where the lightning struck. Clarke reaches her mind out for it, and pulls gently, trying to bring it into the light. Bellamy hisses through his teeth, and she opens her eyes to the ceiling.

"Am I hurting you?" she asks.

"Not exactly," he says.

"Sorry. I'll be careful," Clarke promises, and she reaches out again, finding the foreign pulse in his chest. It feels like a cold, dark knot, spiderwebbing out from the impact of the lightning. She takes her time untangling it, thinking about the warm, golden hallways of the Jedi Temple where Jackson taught her to heal.

Bellamy's fingers slowly uncurl from the fistfuls he's gathered of the sheets as she works, and when the last of the knots has been gently worked free he groans in relief. His mouth is parted, eyes looking up at the ceiling in wonder, his hand limp over his chest. It is achingly intimate. Clarke has the uncomfortable thought that he might looks well-kissed like that, gasping, with his curls splayed against the pillow. It is not the thought of a good Jedi. She looks away and lets him take deep breaths in and out for several minutes.

"That feels so much better," Bellamy says. "I can actually breathe again. I didn't realize how badly it was affecting me."

"Do you feel ready to overthrow an occupation yet?" Clarke asks, trying to joke, and regrets it when Bellamy winces.

"We have to try," Bellamy says. Clarke hates how hopeless he sounds.

They lie in silence for another few minutes, punctuated by Miller's snores from the couch in the other room. It's long enough that Clarke would think Bellamy had fallen asleep, if she couldn't see his wide-open eyes. In the darkness his skin and the whites of his eyes taken on blue hues, and she remembers that a long long time ago, she used to paint.

"You're a princess, aren't you?" Bellamy says out of the blue.

"What?"

"Your mother is the Duchess of Mandalore," Bellamy says. Clarke blinks.

"Well, yeah," she says, wondering where this is going. "But it's not a monarchy."

"Did the other Jedi kids grow up knowing their families? Knowing where they came from?"

Oh. Clarke thinks she takes long enough to answer that the silence alone incriminates her.

"...No."

"You got to go home and see your mother, see Wells," he says. "The others had families that missed them too, but they didn't have parents who ruled entire planets and could negotiate custody with the Jedi Order."

And he's right, but he's not like her, he doesn't know what it's like. Clarke's stomach twists uncomfortably, remembering the chaos she felt as a small child, picking up the emotions of everyone around her, swept by an undertow while she struggled to keep her calm. When normal children had tantrums, furniture didn't go flying. The Order was a refuge, not the prison he's making it out to be.

"...Force-sensitive children have to come to the Order, Bellamy," she says. "We can be dangerous, if we don't have someone to teach us control. Rogue Force-users almost always fall to the Dark side. You can't see, you don't know what that Sith was like in the Force. She felt like... rot."

"Lincoln left the Order. He seems okay."

"That's different," she argues, shifting onto her side to she can look at Bellamy directly. He's frowning slightly, but he doesn't look like he's itching for a fight with her. "He was already an adult, he'd finished his training. And you might have noticed that he didn't exactly go very far from the Temple. The Order still keeps an eye on him."

He seems to be weighing her words.

"Maybe, maybe not," he says eventually. "The point is that no one else got the best of both worlds, like you. You still have a family away from the Order, and kids whose parents were farmers on some backwoods planet didn't get a say. It's not fair."

Clarke traces patterns in Raven's mattress with her fingers as she thinks about that. There were many things she and Abby clashed over, especially when she was younger, but Clarke always took the division of her time between the Jedi, Arkadia and Mandalore to be as immovable as the laws of reality. Gravity existed, and plants needed sunlight to grow, and Clarke remained her mother's daughter even though she could tear apart buildings with her mind.

"I never thought about it that way," Clarke admits eventually.

"Are you thinking about it now?"

"Of course," she says immediately. What does he think she's been doing, quiet for so long?

"Then I forgive you," Bellamy says simply. It should feel like a trap, but she wants to believe him.

"Just like that?"

"Yeah," he says. And after another pause, he adds, "Thank you for healing me."

And slowly Clarke reaches out, and squeezes his hand. When they fall asleep, their fingertips are still brushing. Her dreams are still dark and haunted by the sound of rushing water, but at least she sleeps through the night.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORONET CITY, ARKADIA**

 

In the walled gardens of Arkadia's palace, Anya regards an insect the size of her face with the utmost suspicion. It buzzes about a nearby wilting flower before veering off in search of nectar elsewhere. She watches its receding body vanish into thicker foliage, and slowly walks closer to the prince sitting in the dirt at the end of the path. The Sith left the planet yesterday, off to spread terror elsewhere in the galaxy, and Anya breathes in the fresh air easier with her gone. 

She still doesn't trust this reprise to last, doesn't trust that they won't be thrown back into the dungeon on a moment's whim. But it is nice to pretend, if only for a moment, that they aren't still trapped. That there aren't guns trained on her right now, that there isn't a bright humming energy field over her head.

Wells is feeding a chorus of small songbirds the crumbs from their carefully rationed breakfast. They scatter as she approaches.

"Prince Wells," Anya says softly.

"Master Anya," Wells acknowledges, with the smallest nod of his head.

"I have been scouting a possible escape," Anya says, very carefully, her eyes fixed on the nearest Azgedan soldier patrolling the top of the garden wall that keeps them hemmed in. "I will need you to fake a medical emergency. When they come closer to ensure your health, punch them in the throat. It is a soft target that will not cause significant injury to your inexperienced fists, and their armour - "

"Anya," Wells interrupts gently. "I can't fight them."

She stares at him.

"Clarke has mentioned your pacifism," she says stiffly. "But since we are in a war - "

" - peace is even more valuable now," Wells finishes for her. He looks up from the crumbs his songbirds abandoned, and smiles sadly.

Anya exhales heavily. She will have to find a different way out. She looks up again, her eyes finding the purple shimmer overhead. That blasted energy field. No one goes in or out of the palace without Azgeda's approval. She has already tried throwing herself at it, and she will not be attempting that again. No, they have to find the generator that powers that energy field, and destroy it.

Before the Sith comes back.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Morning dawns cold and bright on Coruscant, the sun peeking from behind hazy clouds and gleaming off the shiny surface of the planet. Underneath the glamour and polished metal - where seamstresses and delivery workers and mechanics live - the sun doesn't quite reach, and flickering strips of neon lighting do their best to chase away the darkness. They don their hooded cloaks once again, Arkadia's emblem turned inside out to keep them anonymous. Clarke keeps one hand on her lightsaber hilt and a watchful gaze on everyone they pass in the maze of hallways and avenues, but no one pays much attention to their group. Not with the subtle Force suggestion she's sending out like a pulse, telling passerbys to keep walking and look elsewhere.

Bellamy is grim as they reach the spaceport where he's arranged to meet this mysterious pirate captain of his. Clarke runs a dubious eye over the shuttered ticket booths, the stains on the ground and the abandoned cargo unloading equipment in the corner whose rusted chains clink together like the galaxy's most ominous windchimes. Even Raven grimaces at the place, and carefully jumps over a fuel slick on the floor that is gently steaming.

"Is that at a risk of blowing up any time soon?" Clarke asks her, gesturing at the colourful slick.

Raven crouches down and sniffs at it half-heartedly. The astromech she's brought along offers a helpful series of beeps, but Raven waves it off.

"Nah, this is low-grade stuff," she says with no attempt made to disguise her distaste. Clarke raises an eyebrow, and looks away. The mysteries of Raven's job repairing spaceships and all that entails is about as understandable to Clarke as Clarke's duty to the Force is to Raven.

"She's already here," Bellamy says, pointing to the cargo hauler parked at the other end of the hangar, the only one in view that has its lights on and signs of life. Clarke doggedly follows, reaching out with her mind to pry in the hanger's dark nooks and behind piles of abandoned crates for danger. She finds none, and as they approach the cargo hauler, she reaches for the crew instead. There are only three lifeforms on board, Clarke finds with a twinge of surprise. Two of them are the ordinary warm glow she gets from most people, and the third feels... well, like Bellamy does, muted and vaguely hostile. Clarke tugs gently on the Force, trying to get a better read on the third lifeform, and feels it snap back at her like an elastic band stretched too far. It's not overly painful, but she's not expecting it, and she stumbles a little before grabbing Bellamy's arm to stop him.

"How much do you trust these people?" Clarke hisses under her breath. He shakes her off easily.

"With my life," Bellamy says in a tone of voice that must have gotten him far in politics, a tone that leaves no room for argument. Well. No room for argument, for people that aren't Clarke Griffin of Mandalore.

"Something feels sketchy," Clarke insists. "Stay close to me."

"Stop treating every single person we encounter like they're going to murder me. I promise I'm safe here," Bellamy hisses back at her. A tall, imposing figure appears at the top of the loading ramp and strides towards them, coming into the light. It's a Zabrak boy with stubby horns nearly hidden under fluffy brown hair, lanky and loose-limbed, slouching a little to duck underneath the doorway. Zabrak prize strength and ferocity above almost everything else, and this boy is as lean and gangly and friendly, as far away from their ideal as they come. He gives them all a wide, crooked smile that shows off far too many teeth.

"Bellamy, Miller!" he calls, nearly tripping over the end of the ramp. His grin settles into something a little more mischievous. "Been too long."

"I saw you a week ago, Jasper," Miller says. Clarke is starting to learn his mannerisms, and though his voice sounds deadpan, she thinks he might be slightly more pleased to see the Zabrak boy - Jasper - than he is to see most people.

"Yeah, yeah," Jasper jokes, punching him in the arm. He looks over his shoulder back at the ship and raises his voice, as though making sure someone else can hear him. "I know I'm not your favourite. Your boyfriend is in his bunk, trying to fix his hair for you."

There is a distant crash from inside the ship.

"I am not!" an indignant voice replies. Miller grins and heads up the ramp with another look at Bellamy. Clarke watches him vanish inside the ship with narrowed eyes. If he thought hitching a ride on this ship was a bad idea yesterday, why is he so willing to leave Bellamy unguarded now? And why would he be so reluctant to see a crew that apparently includes his boyfriend - whether that's official, or just teasing from Jasper, Clarke has yet to determine.

The third and final occupant of the ship steps out from within. It's a young girl, human as far as Clarke can tell, with sharp eyes and an imperious set to her jaw. She's dressed in leather from head to toe, a belt of flash grenades slung low on her hips. Her arms are bare and displaying tattoos and engine grease and... _is that_ _dried blood_?

"Bellamy," she says in a cool, raspy voice that reveals nothing to Clarke. She gives him a single nod, and turns her attention to Clarke, giving her a look as scrutinizing as Clarke's had been to her. Her eyes land on the lightsaber and remain there. Clarke tries to reach out to her mind again and is immediately repelled. The girl's already frosty gaze goes colder.

"Octavia," Bellamy says politely. "This is Clarke. She's a friend."

"Why are you bringing a Jedi on my ship?" Octavia asks flatly.

"She saved my life," Bellamy says, and Octavia's eyes flicker to him. Honestly, with the welcome she's getting, Clarke's not expecting that to work, but to her shock, Octavia shrugs one shoulder, like arguing further would be beneath her, and starts walking back into the bowels of her cargo hauler.

"Fine, get on board!" she calls, and Bellamy sighs before looking expectantly at Clarke.

Clarke, in turn, looks to Raven.

"You're not coming, are you?" Clarke asks. It's not really a question. She and Raven do this dance every time.

"I'll see you soon," Raven says, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her greasy overalls.

"You always say you want to leave this planet, but every time I give you an opportunity, you never do," Clarke says wistfully, stepping in for a hug.

"But then who would feed the droids?" Raven quips, a long-running joke between them. She opens her arms and they close the distance easily, comfortably. Clarke only grumbles a little as Raven, who has been taller as long as they can remember, tries to rest her chin on Clarke's head. 

Clarke sighs and lets the hug go on a little longer, memorizing Raven's warmth. They step back, hands trailing, and Raven gives her a tight nod, and turns to Bellamy.

"I have a lot of mercenary friends," Raven says. "Some of which are willing to do pro bono work, for the right cause. I'll see who I can send your way in case you need to start building an army."

"Thanks," Bellamy says. "For everything."

"Yeah, well," Raven says. "Anything for my favourite Senator."

"...Aren't I the only one you like?"

"Exactly," Raven says. She beams at them, and then her eyes start to water. She pushes Clarke away. "Well, go on. Get on the stupid ship before I start crying in front of you."

Clarke launches herself in for another hug, instead, feeling her own eyes burn and sting.

"Stay safe," she tells her friend. "I don't know what you're planning, but I can only afford to have one friend in danger."

"Get on the goddamn spaceship, Clarke," Raven says, muffled by Clarke's hair in her mouth. Her arms, however, make no move to relax their tight hold around Clarke's shoulders for several more moments. And then, Clarke has no choice but to walk up the ramp, into the ship of a captain she doesn't trust one bit, away from the Order, away from any plausible deniability. The next time Clarke contacts the Council, she knows there will be no slap on the wrist, no pointed reminders to control her emotions. They will not threaten to take her off the mission. They _will_ take her off the mission, and Clarke doesn't know what she'll do if that happens. She's never betrayed the Order before. She's never had reason to. 

Inside the ship, Clarke is at a loss for what to do.

Captain Octavia and Jasper move like a well-oiled machine, getting the cargo hauler ready for take off. The interior of the ship is filled from floor to ceiling with crates. Clarke skims their labels quickly, finding food and medicine and shock blankets, as well as several full of weapons.

"They've been doing non-stop supply runs to Arkadia," Bellamy says, watching her. "Some of the more remote communities might have starved already, if not for them."

"I thought no one could get past Azgeda's blockade?" Clarke asks, with raised eyebrows. Bellamy shrugs and doesn't answer. 

"Monty!" Octavia hollers from the cockpit of the shuttle. The last crew member emerges into the cargo bay with flushed red cheeks and a rather wrinkled shirt, Miller close behind. If their swollen lips and the smug aura that hangs around Miller are any indication, Jasper wasn't just teasing. 

"Hey!" Monty says, passing by Clarke quickly. He keeps talking to her over his shoulder as he double checks fastenings on the crates and keys commands into a datapad on the wall. He's got a bright, easygoing grin that immediately draws Clarke in. "Welcome to the  _Skyripper._ Everyone's introduced themselves already, right? I'm Monty."

"Clarke. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise. You don't get spacesick, do you? Octavia flies like a drunk bantha. You'll definitely need to strap in when we come out of hyperspace," he continues cheerfully. 

"I heard that!" Octavia calls from the cockpit. The floor lurches out from underneath Clarke as the cargo hauler ponderously pushes off from the hangar floor, but quickly stabilizes, and in another heartbeat they are already soaring into Coruscant's skies, darting between its crowded airlanes. Bellamy straps himself in just behind the captain's seat and leans forward to talk with her, apparently unconcerned about distracting her while she's piloting. Clarke slides into the seat across from him and leans back to observe these new strangers. 

"Any news from Niylah?" Bellamy is asking. Octavia grimaces at her windshield as she punches the throttle. 

"Her stores are running low, but she's negotiating with some other merchants to meet demand," Octavia says. "Azgeda sent a few thugs to her station to try to scare her off from helping us. Jasper, we good to go with the hyperdrive?"

"Is she all right?" Bellamy asks. Octavia snorts. 

"You should be asking if the thugs are all right. Monty personally reprogrammed five battle droids for her last year. Azgeda got a few punches in on her before she sicced the droids on them, but nothing she won't recover from."

"Hyperdrive's good, O," Jasper confirms. Octavia gives him a thumbs up and he pulls the lever with a ceremonial flourish. The starry expanse of sky before them blurs, and bleeds into streaks that vanish far behind them. Octavia leans back in her chair and cracks her knuckles. 

"So what's your job, Jedi?" she asks suddenly, jutting her chin out at Clarke. 

"Lately," Clarke says dryly, "Trying to keep Senator Blake out of trouble."

"And what were you doing before that? Playing with glowsticks while Arkadia starved?"

"Octavia," Bellamy says in a warning voice. "Clarke and I have already talked this out."

"And you forgave her?" Octavia shoots back, sounding just as dangerous. "What, did she flutter her eyelashes at you? Mess with your mind?"

Clarke unfastens her seatbelt and stands. Her fists shake at her sides. 

"I'm not going to sit where I'm not wanted. Tell me when we're coming out of hyperspace," she says stiffly, and stalks away to the back of the shuttle without another word. She finds a nook where the crates aren't stacked quite as close together and sits. There's a whispered argument going on in the cockpit that she pretends isn't happening, and closes her eyes to meditate. It's not an easy thing to do, not with the cold of the metal around her seeping in through her tunic and the hum of engines an ever present nuisance. She lets herself wistfully think of the little plant in Raven's apartment that she so often uses to center herself, and finally sighs and tries to look inwards. 

What seems like seconds later, Monty gently nudges her shoulder. She blinks owlishly up at him. 

"Hey," he says. "We're almost to Arkadia. I was serious about the strapping in part. Octavia's flying is tough on the uninitiated." 

Clarke stands and stretches. The soreness in her limbs and her dry mouth tell her she really has been sitting for several hours. 

"You had a fun, uh, meditation session?" Monty asks, awkwardly sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Something like that," Clarke says, making a small smile since he seems like the only person she's met lately that _hasn't_ immediately reacted suspiciously to her use of the Force. Aside from Miller. Who seems to just not care at all.

Clarke pointedly ignores both Bellamy and Captain Octavia as they return to their seats and buckle in. Monty's obviously the crew's tech expert, which is fine. Clarke's spent enough time around Raven to be able to bullshit her way through a tech conversation, and she actually is curious about something. "So, how are we going to get past the blockade? Do you have a cloaking device? Sensor jammers?"

"Nothing like that," Monty says. "But if we had the credits to spend, you have _no idea_ what kind of upgrades I'd give this baby."

"It'd be his paradise," Jasper mutters from up ahead, and Monty playfully flicks the back of his head in retaliation.

"Someone on the inside who accepts bribes?" Clarke asks, thinking hard of other alternatives. 

"Maybe I'm just a good pilot," Octavia says, punching buttons with the ferocity of someone who is, in fact,  _very sure_  that they are a good pilot, and _really wants you to know it_. 

"Yeah, sure," Clarke says. "I've seen that blockade. What's your real strategy?"

"I don't think you understand," Jasper says, craning his neck around to look at her. "We're going to literally fly past it."

Clarke blinks, and something like dread starts to creep its way underneath her skin. Octavia rests her hand on the hyperdrive lever and tenses, staring straight ahead at the streaking white tunnel of hyperspace. A warning in bright red block letters starts to pulse on the dashboard. Jasper taps to shut it off before Clarke can read it, but she has a good idea what it says, and something in the Force is starting to press on her mind. A weight. The weight of an entire planet and every living creature on it, every plant and animal and person radiating energy in the Force. And they're approaching, far too fast. 

"Get out," Clarke says, panicking. "Get out of hyperspace, right now."

"No backseat driving," Octavia snips back at her, without tearing her gaze from the stars smudging on either side of them.

"You have to get out, it's too late, you're not going to be able to slow down and we'll crash into the planet," Clarke says frantically. She tugs at her seatbelt, trying to figure out how to unbuckle it, but her hands are suddenly shaking, and Monty's hands shoot out, grabbing it and trying to still her. 

"Seriously, it's fine. We've done this a hundred times." Monty insists, completely calm. Bellamy looks between her and Octavia with increasing wariness, like he's not sure who to listen to. Red lights start flashing in the cockpit, and a low, quiet siren begins to beep insistently. The warnings on the dashboard start popping up faster than Jasper can exit out of them as the computer runs out of calculations where the ship comes out intact in the end and Octavia isn't even paying attention to them. 

"Let me pilot," Clarke says frantically, batting Monty's hands away. "I can get us out. For fuck's sake, Octavia, _get out of hyperspace!_ "

"In a minute!" Octavia snarls. "Would you shut up already? I'm concentrating!"

Clarke wants to claw at her head. The pressure of an entire planet coming on so fast is almost too much to bear. They're too close to its gravity well. She can feel the distance where the blockade would be held in orbit, and squeezes her eyes tight as they cross it and Octavia's hand is still clenched around the hyperdrive lever and it's not moving and it's too late and they're going to crash - 

Clarke makes her decision in a split-second. She stops fighting with her seatbelt, with Monty, and thrusts out with her hand, with her mind, through the weight pressing down on her. Octavia lets out a yelp as Clarke pulls the lever down with the Force and the whole ship shudders around them. Metal creaks and groans under the sudden onslaught of gravity as hyperspace slows. Clarke's head rings as all the lights in the ship flicker off and on again, and their return brings a fresh wave of blaring alarms. 

The ship gives one last violent lurch, crashes coming from the cargo bay as the crates that weren't strapped down dislodge. They drop out of hyperspace already tumbling stern over prow towards Arkadia. The planet is so close that it takes up the whole view through the windshield. Clarke can pick out mountains and rivers snaking through red-gold autumnal forests and - she notices, with a drop in her stomach that has nothing to do with the ship's motion - pillars of smoke rising up into the atmosphere from the sites of Azgedan attacks. The blockade of Azgedan dreadnoughts has noticed them, it would be impossible not to, and the shark-nosed vessels are slowly pivoting towards them.

The seatbelt harness digs into Clarke's hips and chest. They're still falling too fast. Octavia curses as she fights with the controls, trying to steady the ship as flames start to lick at its nose. Clarke doesn't think she's ever entered a planet's atmosphere at this speed, not even when she was fifteen and Anya was trying to teach her how to pilot for the first time. 

"Pull up!" Clarke shouts at Octavia. 

"I wouldn't fucking have to if someone didn't pull the stupid fucking lever before I was ready!" Octavia yells back over the alarms. From the seat beside her, Jasper puts his horned head in his hands and groans quietly. 

"Azgeda is sending fighters!" Miller points out urgently, and they all swivel their heads to look as tiny starfighters drop from the belly of the nearest Azgedan dreadnought. 

"Wow, great," Octavia says, and kicks the ship console so hard that Clarke hears the impacts over the alarms. They're still dropping towards Arkadia, falling so fast that Clarke can start to pick out small towns and the migrations of cattlebeast as shepherds lead them in search of refuge from Azgeda. "Jasper, deflector shields on the rear."

"If you can't slow us down, let me pilot," Clarke insists.

"This is all your fault!" Octavia snaps back. "And no one else gets to touch my ship. Especially not a _Jedi_. If you'd let me do my fucking job, we would have been fine."

"We were going to crash!"

"I swear, we really have done this a hundred times," Monty says faintly, looking a little green as the ground rushes up at them. A few bright red laser shots from the Azgedan starfighters burn past them, fading into the distance. 

"We're good," Jasper says nervously. "Deflector shields are holding."

"They won't follow us much longer," Octavia says, jerking back the throttle. The cargo hauler groans as she tugs its nose up, like she's going to try to skim over Arkadia's quickly approaching horizon. "They can't pull off a fight with this much acceleration."

"No ordinary person can," Clarke says breathlessly. Her heart thumps uselessly in her throat as the ground approaches and Octavia tugs the ship's nose higher and higher, until they're looking up at the sky instead of the forest they're about to crash in. The Azgedan starfighters are, as expected, pulling back before they crash too. Octavia punches a button, and the cargo hauler groans as its rockets fire. They hold their breath for the engines to hold as the ship's descent seems to slow with the rockets fighting against gravity. 

"Divert all power to the engines," Octavia orders, and Jasper and Monty leap to flick the appropriate switches.

"Almost there," Monty says, checking his instruments. The alarms cut out and the cockpit goes dim as everything is diverted to the rockets.

Clarke holds her breath, and all of them are silent, hardly daring to blink. 

"Cut it," Octavia says suddenly, and the engines shut down with distressed whines just as she steers the nose of the ship level with Arkadia. Clarke sees the treetops flash in front of them, and then branches crack underneath the ship's unstoppable weight. Her last instinct, before they hit the ground, is to reach out with the Force and cradle Bellamy's head and neck from the impact.

To her shock, someone's already done it. 

The ship hits with a rumble that trembles in every bone in her body. The sound of Clarke's gasping breaths echo through the cockpit. They stir, all of them, as though afraid of what they'll discover. 

"Everyone alive?" Octavia asks in her raspy, hoarse voice. She unbuckles her seatbelt and stumbles to her feet, already moving to check on Jasper. 

"You're Force-sensitive," Clarke gasps, and Octavia goes perfectly still. Their eyes meet. Octavia's are wide and frightened, a stormy sea of green. "That's how you get past the blockade," Clarke continues. "No one could fly like that without the Force."

Clarke is still putting the pieces together when Octavia lunges forward and wraps her hands around Clarke's neck.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the last chapter Amarieh commented that they were looking forward to seeing Bellamy's reaction to the video and I was like FUCK I didn't write that. The first scene was my attempt at that, but first I had to come up with a way for them to sneak out of the Senate after Bellamy salt-baed them, which turned into Miller stealing [guard armour](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Senate_Guard), which turned into Bellamy&Wells&Miller backstory. Whoops.
> 
> [Rodians](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Rodian) are SW canon and they're lovely. I made up their food tho.
> 
> SW canon on [Force healing](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Force_healing/Legends) is, hmmm, how you say, makes no sense? Feel free to assume that whenever Force healing comes up in this fic it's just me handwaving whatever needs to be done for the plot. Also when I describe how the Force feels, that's entirely me making shit up, I don't know how much of that is backed up by canon. I'm sorry these endnotes end up being 50% _here's a thing I researched in-depth from multiple sources for several hours_ and 50% _I don't care at all if this is canon or not_
> 
> There is at least one canon [Duchess of Mandalore](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Satine_Kryze)! Obi-Wan was absolutely in love with her (as am I) and she inspired some of Wells' characterization here.
> 
> Jasper is a [Zabrak](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Zabrak/Legends). He has season 3 hair with cute lil horns sticking out. The most recognizable Zabrak is Darth Maul, whom we first meet in Phantom Menace. If you think Murphy is a cockroach, oh boy, Maul could give him a run for his money. 
> 
> I could have sworn that the maneuver that Octavia pulls to get past the Azgedan blockade has some basis on a couple of canon incidents, but I can't really remember now. *handwavey* [Sufficient gravitational pulls](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Gravity_well) can wrench ships out of hyperspace and that is dangerous, so I assume most pilots will come out of hyperspace at a safe distance away and then cruise the remaining distance. Octavia doesn't. Shoutout to Juli_Bernado for combing through 4 chapters looking for evidence that Octavia is Force-sensitive, your comments made me scream.
> 
> Aaaaand is it really a The 100 fanfiction if Clarke doesn't pull at least one lever?


	6. sibling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** heavily implied past abuse.

 

**ARKADIA**

 

When Octavia throws herself across the cockpit to strangle Clarke, Bellamy's first thought should not be that Miller told him this would go badly, but it is.

The next few seconds have a dreamlike quality, distant, somehow, capable of shattering if he moves too quickly. Bellamy can only stare as Octavia's hands squeeze Clarke's throat, as Clarke's face goes from shock to confusion to the determined resolve that is quickly becoming the thing Bellamy both hates and loves most about her. Clarke's hands fly up to Octavia's wrists and she quickly pulls her down into the chair with her, Clarke's knee already raised and ready to connect with Octavia's stomach.

His sister's pained groan snaps Bellamy into action. He tries to leap up out of his chair and is jerked back by the seatbelt harness he forgot he was wearing. It takes him another few seconds to unbuckle that, and by the time he's out and across the cockpit, Octavia has released one hand from Clarke's neck and is clawing at Clarke's hip for her lightsaber. Bellamy wraps one arm over his sister's collarbone and the other around her waist, and pulls her off of Clarke. Octavia is strong and fueled by her fury, but Bellamy has the advantage of weight and surprise, and he manages to drag them both backwards while Clarke gets up and clears her throat.

"Let go, Bell," Octavia snarls, her hands clawing at his sleeves. It hurts, but not as much as it could. She's trying to hold back. "Bell, let me go, she's a Jedi, she _knows_."

"She won't take you away," Bellamy promises breathlessly.

" _She knows_ ," Octavia says, her voice rising and breaking off into a howl that barely sounds human. Bellamy shushes her, tries to absorb her flailing elbows and twisting body with his own. She stomps hard on his foot and he winces, but the soothing sounds he's making into her ear barely hitch.

"She won't take you away," Bellamy says, staring through Clarke. If their mother were alive, he thinks she'd be howling like Octavia is now, like the world was coming down around them, like the apocalypse was on their doorstep with a hand raised to knock. He can still hear her endless lessons in his mind. All the warnings she gave are coming true. Clarke's eyes are darting rapidly between his face and Octavia's. He's not Force-sensitive, he can't read her mind, but he can see her eyes widen and her jaw go slack as she maps the similarities between him and Octavia. The freckles, the cheekbones, the jaw. People don't often realize they're related until they look close, since Bellamy takes after the Mirialan grandfather he's never met, and Octavia uses so much eyeshadow that's hard to tell what she looks like underneath. The realization seems to bowl Clarke over. She physically takes a step back. Bellamy shakes his head, looking at her pleadingly. "You won't take her away, right Clarke? Right? Please."

"We won't let you," Jasper declares, unholstering his blaster and raising it to Clarke.

"Put that down," Bellamy snaps, and Jasper looks uncertain. Octavia may be his captain, but Jasper remembers who bought the ship and who hired him as her crew. For a split-second he looks torn between two loyalties, before making up his mind.

"You're not my captain," Jasper says, and he raises the blaster with more resolve and looks between Clarke and Octavia expectantly.

"You won't get away with murdering a Jedi," Miller warns him. Jasper's hand wavers slightly.

"Octavia," Bellamy begs, asking her to tell Jasper to stand down. And she stays silent. 

"How about we talk this out?" Monty says placatingly.

"Put the blaster down," Clarke says in a tone of voice that is probably rarely disobeyed. Her fingers twitch. She looks back at Bellamy. "You're siblings?" she questions, sounding more curious than angry.

Bellamy swallows down the lump of fear in his throat that he's been taught to carry since Octavia's birth.

"Yes," he admits. It comes out as barely more than a whisper.

"Are you Force-sensitive too?" she asks. Bellamy shakes his head.

"Just O," he says. "Please don't tell the Order. Please."

"I won't," Clarke says. "I'm not going to." She seems overwhelmed by the last few minutes all of a sudden, and sits back in her chair with a heavy exhale. Jasper lowers his blaster, looking confused about Clarke's apparent lack of regard at being held at gunpoint. "Honestly," she says. "This explains _so much_."

"Can we have the epiphanies later?" Miller asks them, nervously peering out through the cockpit's windows. "I'd like to be far away from the ship when Azgeda comes looking for it."

If there's one thing Octavia cares more about than throwing tantrums, it's her ship. She immediately straightens up in Bellamy's grip and stops clawing at his sleeves.

"No one's going to find my ship!" Octavia snaps at him.

"But it's not a bad idea to get moving," Bellamy coaxes. "We should try to find shelter or allies before nightfall."

"Fine," Octavia says through gritted teeth, and he relaxes his arms enough that she breaks free of the hold and stalks off into the cargo hold, with one last withering glare at Clarke as she passes. The awkward silence in the cockpit after her departure is palpable.

"So that happened," Monty murmurs. He glances sidelong at Clarke. "No hard feelings?"

Clarke gives him an exasperated look and doesn't bother to answer, which doesn't seem very Jedi-like of her. They follow Octavia out. The ramp opens with a hiss of air and Bellamy breathes in the scent of Arkadian soil and pine. Their crash landing has buried them a little deeper into the ground than usual, and the ramp digs into the ground partway and then gives a distressed mechanical whine. They have to duck out to get free, Jasper especially.

Bellamy straightens up in the clearing of their crash landing and spins around, once, twice, scanning the skies for Azgedan fighters. It's possible they won't come looking at all, if their strategy droids calculated no possible trajectory their falling ship could survive.

Bellamy is used to his little sister doing impossible things.

But for Clarke this is a shock, and despite her reassurance that she won't turn Octavia to the Jedi Order, Bellamy worries. He watches her carefully as she and Octavia work together to conceal the ship under the treetops while they both pretend very hard not to be working together. What does he know of her weaknesses so far? Wells, but Wells is a weakness of his too. Anya, but he doesn't think a fully trained Jedi Master really counts as a weakness. Bellamy's stomach turns uneasily as he tries to look at her the way he's gotten used to looking at his political opponents. Like a collection of agendas and ulterior motives and exploitable secrets he can use if he just finds the key. He looks down at his feet instead.

The problem is that sometime between that first disastrous Senate session and finding out Clarke literally fell off a building to go after his unconscious body, Bellamy started to like her. And now that budding friendship is warring with his ingrained responsibility to protect Octavia.

He thinks Clarke might understand, might agree to keep Octavia's secret. In any case, they'll be safe from the Order as long as Clarke is focused on the mission and pissed at the other Jedi for not helping. Bellamy has a little bit of time left to scrape together a plan. But once they succeed, once they free Wells and Clarke's Master, he's afraid Jedi Master Anya won't be so willing to help him hide Octavia's Force-sensitivity from her peers. Octavia might still get away with her ship, with Jasper and Monty, but as Senator Bellamy would be expected to stay and rebuild Arkadia. A few years ago it would have been easy to choose her. Now he's torn. And when he imagines a future under supervision, someone watching from afar in case his renegade sister returns... Would it ever be safe for her to visit again? Would he even be able to contact her?

"Let's get moving!" Miller calls out, and Bellamy reluctantly turns his attention back to the present.

"Where to?" Jasper asks, spinning around and looking up at the trees as though he'll find arrows up there.

"I'm scanning for signs of life," Monty says, tapping at a datapad. A tiny, palm-sized droid clambers out of his pocket and unfolds a pair of rotor blades. Monty gives it some instructions and it zooms off with equally tiny whirring sounds.

Bellamy knows _'signs of life'_ is the usual phrase, but he wishes it didn't sound so ominous. He saw the plumes of smoke rising up into Arkadia's skies. He's afraid of what he'll find. Of how long it will take to rebuild enough of his planet that they can afford to spend time identifying the dead. Of recognizing too many names on the list - farmers that have petitioned Wells' court over territory disputes, or merchants he's met in the market, or tailors his mother worked with.

The silence stretches as Monty's droid searches for a heading, and Bellamy's mind tangles itself in darker worries. Then -

"This way," Monty says, holding up the datapad and marching determinedly into the underbrush. Bellamy glances to the side, and Clarke is already looking at him, her face set in an increasingly familiar expression of determination and wariness. They fall into step behind Monty, who is so focused on his datapad that occasionally Miller has to release his two-handed grip on his beloved rifle to steer him around tree roots.

Bellamy hasn't had time to go for walks in Arkadia's famed forests since Azgeda's blockade darkened their skies. He breathes in the smell of pine and the musty odour of fallen leaves slowly decomposing underfoot. Dormant mushrooms pepper the sides of trees, waiting for nightfall to show their true colours, and giant ferns brush at their shoulders as if embracing an old friend after a long absence. Birdsong cautiously returns to the treetop overhead as the birds that had scattered as Octavia's ship came down return to examine the intrusion on their forest.

"Do we have a plan?" Clarke asks.

"Scope out the land, first," Bellamy says. "See what's burning. See if there are civilians in danger. You have any ideas?"

Clarke steps carefully around a sapling that comes between them, then falls back into step with him.

"Anya and I were on a mission last year..." she says carefully, before trailing off, deep in thought. She shakes it off. "There was a civil war. There will be a lot to rebuild, and people will need a leader."

"You want to go after Wells," Bellamy guesses. Clarke presses her lips together into a thin, guilty line.

"The Council would say it's an emotional decision," she says. "And they'd be right. But it's also a logical one. Wells is loved by Arkadia, and they're going to need someone to rally behind. They'll unite around him."

"You and I do the dirty work, and he reminds us why it’s worth it?” Bellamy says wryly. Clarke gives him a wan half-smile.

"Exactly."

The conversation is put on hold for a moment as Monty's navigation leads them to the edge of a steep gorge. The drop isn't too far, but the group slows and spreads out along its rim, looking for a way down the rocky incline. Octavia loses her patience first and leaps off, falling to a crouch on a rock that juts out halfway, and jumping the remaining distance. The back of Bellamy's neck prickles with unease at her display of unnatural acrobatics, but Clarke is unfazed, or preoccupied enough with making sure Monty gets down safely with his datapad still clenched in both hands.

There's a break in the tree canopy above the gorge, where the trees valiantly stretch their branches out to close the gap, but Bellamy can still see the blue sky coming through like the blanket of leaves has been ripped. In the distance there is the low, rumbling roar of some machine. It doesn't sound like any ship engine he recognizes, but then - that's never been his specialty. He snatches wary glances up at the sky as he climbs down the gorge anyway.

He jumps the last few steps, landing where Clarke is brushing dirt off her hands. Octavia is on the far side. Bellamy takes a step closer to Clarke and lowers his voice.

"About Octavia - " he begins, but just then, Monty swears at his datapad.

Clarke gives him an apologetic look.

"We'll talk later," she promises.

"What's wrong?" Miller asks, hefting his blaster up in one arm to lay the other hand on his boyfriend's shoulder.

"There's two groups of people," Monty says, dragging a finger along to examine the virtual terrain up ahead. "A large one, stationary, that way," he says, pointing to the north, where Bellamy uneasily notes the rumbling sounds are coming from. "And a small one, that way. Moving towards us."

"Does it seem like they're moving intentionally? Could they know we're here?" Clarke asks, craning over Monty's shoulder. He shrugs.

"Not sure."

"I want to stay hidden until we know if they're Azgeda or Arkadians," Clarke says.

"Then we should stay ahead," Miller says grimly. "Toward the bigger group?" he asks, looking to Bellamy.

"Yeah," he confirms, glancing between the serious faces fixed on him. "Stay sharp, everyone."

"He _always_ says that," he catches Octavia muttering to Jasper as they press on, but it's not worth picking an argument with her now. They hurry between the trees, following Monty's drone as it ducks in and out of view, any hint of conversation silenced by the tension that weighs on them all.

They don't slow until they've put some distance between them and the smaller group, and are nearly upon the larger group. This close the rumble of huge engines is so strong that Bellamy can feel the ground shaking underneath them, so strong that none of them have to worry about stepping lightly as they climb up a rocky outcropping to get a view on the activity in the valley below them.

Part of Bellamy knows, from the size of the noise, that this can't possibly be some Arkadian operation. Azgeda would have found and targeted it already. So when he looks over the ridge they're hidden behind, a knot of worry and anger is already weighing in his stomach.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORONET CITY, ARKADIA**

 

Wells is in the gardens again.

Anya is not sure why. Any sense of freedom they might give him is an illusion.

She hates the palace now, the stiffling silence broken only by the march of Azgedan troops in heavy boots, the whites in the eyes of the few remaining Arkadian workers as they scurry down hallways trying to avoid cruelty, the way each one of them will look down at her hip as they meet, searching for the lightsaber that should be there, and then searching her face for hope when they don't find that.

The gardens are not much better. Anya feels the weight of Azgedan sentries on her back as she approaches Wells. They walk the garden walls at all hours of the day, always too many, always watching. The energy field between them has made them overconfident. They would not be so smug if they knew a Jedi could get to them. Anya gives the field with a hateful eye. She can see it shimmering above, tinging her view of the sky purple.

She still hasn't been able to find the generator that powers it.

Wells is trimming dead leaves off the plants today. He finds things to keep him busy while Anya tests the limits of their captors' patience. They wouldn't give him shears or a knife for his gardening, so he's pinching the dead leaves off with his fingernails and dropping them into a bucket. They come off easier than the live ones, but some of the stalks are thick and rubbery. His fingers are dyed green and orange.

He raises his eyebrows silently at Anya as she comes to a stop beside him. She shakes her head imperceptibly.

"How are your plants?" she asks dryly.

"Dying," Wells says. She didn't need to hear it from him. She can feel destruction in the Force, growing dimmer wherever Azgeda sinks its claws. It hurts, so she doesn't reach out to check anymore, keeping to herself.

"Still believe in your pacifism?" Anya asks. She doesn't mean to be cruel, truly, she doesn't, but the slight frown in Wells' forehead makes her wonder if her brutal pragmatism comes across that way.

"Yes."

"What if it costs you your life?" Anya asks softly.

"I wouldn't want to live to perpetuate more violence," Wells argues. "This war with Azgeda is cyclical."

"They invaded Arkadia last time, too," Anya points out. "It's a militaristic society. Violence is the only thing they respect."

"For now, it is," Wells says. "After the last siege ended, I read some Azgedan philosophy. I wanted to know their account of the siege."

"And?" Anya asks. "What did you learn?"

Wells is quiet for a long time.

"That we're never going to win by my father's methods," he says eventually. He crushes the yellowed leaves in his bucket down with his fist to make room for more. "I know not all of my citizens see it that way, and I understand why. I still respect them. But honestly, I thought a Jedi of all people would agree with me."

Anya snorts.

"I am not a usual Jedi," she says wryly. "You think any of the others could have stayed sane with Clarke as a Padawan? Charging into every conflict she could find, determined to fix the entire universe?"

Wells smiles as well, and that looks better on him than the constant worry that plagues them whenever Azgedan war generals come to gloat.

"If she's not already here to ruin Queen Nia's plans," Wells says. "Then I bet she's on her way."

Anya looks away. Wells still doesn't know about the conversation she had while he was unconscious, when the Sith revealed she'd already found Clarke. She doesn't want to worry him, but she's afraid they won't be getting outside help any time soon.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

"E-L-I-G-I-U-S," Jasper slowly reads out as he zooms in on the nearest equipment with his goggles.

"The mining federation?" Octavia asks, grimacing at the smell of chemicals on the air. "What are they doing here?"

"Mining," Miller points out dryly. Clarke sees Jasper roll his eyes, and then push the goggles up on his forehead and roll his eyes again so Miller can get the full effect.

"But what could they be drilling for?" Clarke asks. She turns to her other side. "Bellamy?"

Bellamy splays out his hand, palm up, as he searches his memory for an answer.

"The usual stuff you find in planetary crust, I guess," he says, losing grip on his polished Senate vocabulary from the shock of the crater in front of them. "And, well - Arkadia has massive lakes of rhydonium underneath its surface, but those are buried so deep that no one tries to get to them anymore. You can't, not without tearing Arkadia apart."

"Maybe Azgeda doesn't care if Arkadia is destroyed," Clarke says, grimly looking out at the troops supervising Eligius workcrews. Looking at the holes they've already bored into the valley beneath them, she'd believe it. She doesn't want to, though. She doesn't want to imagine the awful cruelty involved, the tear it would leave in the Force, the wanton destruction - all for what? Some good-quality fuel?

"What would they even need that much rhydonium for, though?" Monty asks, having reached the same conclusion as her. Of them all, he looks the most horrified.

"I mean, if they drilled Arkadia apart, they'd practically have total control over the galaxy's supply," Octavia says with a grimace. "Rhydonium's not exactly easy to come by."

"Sure, but extreme capitalism isn't Azgeda's style," Bellamy points out. "It'd be profitable, but this is Azgeda. They don't think like that."

"What would Azgeda want with fuel then?" Clarke muses aloud. "Using it themselves? On this scale?"

Bellamy suddenly blanches. He's still hard to read in the Force, always has been, but Clarke can still feel him go cold. She reaches out despite herself, despite his initial hostility towards her, but he doesn't shake off the comforting hand she lays on his shoulder. If anything, he curls into her, his eyes wide and horrified, mind elsewhere.

"Bellamy?" Octavia asks, her gravelly voice low and urgent with concern.

"I'm okay," he says. "I just - I just thought how many battleships they could power with this."

Clarke inhales sharply.

"No," she says, understanding. "That's not a pretty thought."

"Guys," Monty says nervously. "That second group is close, and they're moving fast."

Clarke shuffles awkwardly through the dirt on her elbows to get close enough to see the datapad over his shoulder. True to his word, the second group of lifeforms is following the edge of the crater Eligius has made, and they look to be only a few minutes away from intersecting. Clarke doesn't think the group is intentionally seeking them out, but if it’s Azgedan soldiers patrolling the rim of the crater, she doesn't want to be found. Better safe than sorry.

"Everyone, up into the trees!" she says, quickly ruling out backtracking away from the crater.

Arkadia's pines are dense and sturdy, luckily, with branches that hang low to the ground. Though some close to the crater have been singed by whatever Eligius is doing, there's still enough vegetation to hide them all. Clarke helps the others up first and then uses the Force to give herself a push off the ground, soaring up to the branch Bellamy’s on. He gives her a look as she settles in close to him, but he concedes to make enough room on the branch.

They hide in tense silence as the lifeforms approach. Monty still has his datapad estimating their movement, but he calls in his drone to roost on his shoulder for fear it'll be spotted. A few moments later, they don't need the drone at all - Clarke can see movement in the underbrush.

It's a small group - maybe five, six people, dressed in dark greens and browns, armed with blasters and stained with mud. They don't move like she thinks Azgeda would, with reckless confidence. They dart between the trees furtively, crawling up to the rim with binoculars and notebooks, glancing over their shoulders like they expect to be hunted.

Clarke watches the figure at the front and tries to figure out where she's seen that braid before, when the figure looks up, her muddy face turned up towards the sky, and Bellamy's hand tightens around her arm.

"Lieutenant Monroe!" he hisses, just audible over the sound of Eligius machinery. The woman tilts her head, looking a little confused.

"Not too loud," Clarke warns, jabbing at his ribcage. "They're friends?"

"Yes," Bellamy says, face open and bright with relief. He and Miller both start scrambling down the tree. Clarke considers the woman scanning the trees with suspicion and drops down from her branch, letting the Force slow her descent.

Three blasters are aimed at her by the time she's landed.

"Don't shoot," Clarke says, holding her hands up, and she sees the muddy, wary fugitives take in her Jedi robes, and the sight of the others climbing down, Bellamy and Miller at their lead.

"Senator Blake!" the woman he called Monroe says as she holsters her blaster with profound relief. "And Captain Miller. You have _no idea_ how glad I am to see you both safe. Does this mean reinforcements are on their way?"

"Not even close," Bellamy says grimly. He gestures towards the rim of the crater. "We saw the smoke from the atmosphere. Are they all mining camps, like this one?"

Monroe's shoulders slump.

"All the ones that we've scouted out so far," she admits.

"What do you mean, are reinforcements not coming?" another scout asks, his muddy face scowling.

"For now, no," Bellamy says. He glances at Clarke. "Just us."

The Arkadian scouts all look very young and lost, their expressions wary and exhausted underneath the dirt.

"Well," Clarke says, resigned. "Let’s see what we can do."

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Raven curses as the hologram in front of her flickers to life, a blue-tinged figure in baggy overalls sitting back on his bunk after _finally_ answering her call.

"I literally could have dismantled three engines in the time I've wasted waiting for you to pick up," Raven says.

"Settle down, firecracker," Zeke Shaw says, giving her a lopsided grin like he can't decide whether to be alarmed or pleased by the intensity of her greeting. "I was working, I just got a new contract. My commlink wasn't working on the ground, for some reason, so you'll have to wait for me to finish my shift, like a plebeian."

"Your commlink wasn't working?" Raven asks, momentarily distracted by the promise of technology she might be able to fix and lord over Zeke. "What did you do, sit on it?" She makes grabby hands at the hologram. "Show me!"

"It wasn't the hardware, it's working fine now," Zeke says. "No problems once I got out of atmo, it just fizzled out on the surface."

Raven frowns, a terrible suspicion creeping over her. It settles into her bones, cold and horrid.

"Wait, Zeke," she says. "Are you on Arkadia, by any chance?"

He blinks. The hologram wavers.

"How did you guess?"

"Haven't you heard? Arkadia is under invasion by Azgeda, and they're jamming transmissions planet-wide. What are you - what is _Eligius_ doing there?"

Zeke shrugs one shoulder at her, looking uncomfortable.

"I told you, I got a contract and I took it," he says. "This is the first I'm hearing about an invasion. That doesn't sound good, but I can't exactly afford to be picky with my jobs..."

"Zeke..." Raven says. She stares at him while her brain scrambles for a next step.

"Sucks about the invasion," he says apologetically. "But I can't do anything about that. I'm just here to follow orders and blow up some rocks. But I have good news, Rae, I'm just a few jobs away from buying my freedom. I can get out soon."

"Zeke," Raven says again, shaking her head. "You can't. Oh man. You have no idea what you're getting into. Your new employers tried to assassinate my friend a few days ago. You can't work for them!"

"I work with criminals, Raven," he hisses at her. "Everyone I know has tried to kill someone!"

"Not like this - "

"It's just a few more jobs," Zeke says. "I almost have enough money. I can get out, and then I can afford to have a moral compass again. Can we - can we not have this argument right now?"

"What if I bought you out?" Raven says urgently. An idea is forming in her mind, as bright and hot as molten metal. "I'll pay whatever's left on your head, you can go free. I'll help you escape Eligius - as long as you sabotage whatever job you're doing for Azgeda."

She clasps her hands together and holds her breath as he considers her proposal. Zeke doesn't speak while he thinks. He's always careful like that and it's something she usually likes about him - the anticipation of watching him consider every option, the mystery, the frustration that she can't take him apart like a machine to see what's ticking in his skull. He reveals nothing until he's made his mind.

"Where are you going to get that kind of money, Rae?" he asks. "It's not worth you putting yourself in danger."

"We're already in danger. Work with me. Let me get you out," Raven tells him, and now she wants, more than ever, to reach out and touch him, to feel the comfort of solid skin under her fingertips, to smooth out the worried crease in his forehead. She's never done that. Raven met him over the Holonet while looking for spare engine parts that weren't entirely legal, and in the years that have followed they've only ever met like this, through hologram, while he wanders the galaxy for work.

They're so close, and yet everything feels so precarious. Everyone Raven loves is in danger.

"I'm almost done building my starship," Raven tells him softly. She watches the worried line of his mouth melt into a fond smile he can't hold back. "She's beautiful."

"Can't wait to see her," Zeke says, and Raven breathes in sharply as it occurs to her that he's not talking only about the ship she's built with the parts he sold her.

"Do you trust me?" Raven asks. Zeke's smile fades. He looks at her, level and serious, and he's unreadable again, as smooth and impassable as glass. She lets him weigh the options.

"Yes," he says.

"Okay," Raven says, and then she scrambles for paper and pencil, clearing droid scraps off her table with a resounding crash to make room. She sets Zeke's flickering blue image at the head of the table, where he can see her work. "Talk to me. What's the operation? What kind of equipment are you working with?"

"You're gonna need more paper," Zeke tells her.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Night falls quickly over Arkadia, the sun retreating beyond the mountain range on the horizon and casting the forest into shades of purple and gray. Monroe's scouting group pauses in the shelter of a rocky overhang and they pass waterskins and crackers around as they wait for the darkness to lift.

It doesn't take long.

Maybe half an hour later the vegetation around them begins to reveal its true colours. Phosphorescent buds daintly unfold and stretch their glowing petals out to entice insects. The algae that speckles the trunks of nearby trees glows green and teal and occasionally a soft, rosy pink. Ferns sway in the evening breeze. A lunar moth the size of Bellamy's palm flutters right past his ear and alights on a nearby colony of phosphorescent toadstools.

"There's probably enough light to keep going now," one of Monroe's scouts, Atom, says with a critical eye on the awakening forest.

Bellamy can't blame him for being wary of staying out here too long, where they're exposed to whatever patrols or scans Azgeda might run, even as a tiny part of him wishes they could admire the glowing flora a little while longer. He glances at Clarke to see what she thinks of it, genuinely unsure if she and Wells would have ever gone trekking through the wilderness like this as children, if she's seen Arkadia's forests at night before. As a Jedi she must have seen dozens of more exotic planets, but Arkadia is Bellamy's, so he hopes it's the best. To his surprise, Clarke just looks wistful - and sad. Bellamy tries to imagine Wells as a child and finds that he can't. He's only ever known his prince as the man sitting in a stiff collar behind towering stacks of paperwork, smiling even as the circles under his sleepless eyes got darker and darker.

Bellamy shakes off his memories and stands up and follows Octavia as she picks a path through the toadstools.

At last they reach the edges of the makeshift rebel camp. As soon as they've set foot in it he is swarmed by rebels, all clamoring to hear news from Coruscant before the flaps of their makeshift tents have finished fluttering in their wake. Bellamy gives out hugs with wild abandon - to Lieutenant Harper, to guardsmen Mbege and Fox, to every face he even remotely recognizes, even as something in his chest aches at the radiant, hopeful way the rebels look at him and Clarke, like a Senator and a single Jedi can do anything at all to stop the massive injustice being committed against their planet.

Monroe and Harper quickly usher them into the war room, which is really just a tent slightly bigger and sturdier than the rest. A droid projects a map of their scouting missions so far. There are six craters like the one they saw within a two day journey of Coronet City, where Azgeda has hired Eligius workers to tear apart their forests and drill giant holes into the earth, and they saw pillars of smoke rising from all around the planet. Their ragtag council talks well into the night, as Bellamy recounts the Senate's disappointing reaction, and Clarke worries about Azgeda having some kind of connection to the Sith assassin, and Monroe and Harper summarize what intelligence they've been able to gather on the invasion so far. It hasn't all been scouting missions, either - Harper reassures Bellamy that they managed to hide some refugees in bunkers before Azgedan troops grew too numerous, and that the remains of the palace guard have enough firepower to blow up several enemy walkers, though they were holding off for the right moment to strike.

But the high spirits that their arrival carried into the camp don't last long. Bellamy looks at the blue map projection flickering around him and knows that the battle ahead of them is an impossible one.

In the hushed silence that follows some droid footage of the streets of Coronet City burning, Bellamy finally forces out the question he's been afraid to ask.

"How did it happen?" he asks hoarsely, and Monroe and Harper exchange heartbroken glances. They know what he means even before he clarifies it. "How did they capture Wells?"

"Prince Wells told us to be ready for anything," Harper says quietly. "But he was in negotiations when Azgeda made their move. We were – we were locked out."

"Senator Echo," Bellamy curses, bracing his hands behind his head and staring up at the rough tent's ceiling.

"He made us swear that if we couldn't realistically protect him, that we would retreat from the palace and hide as many civilians as we could," Monroe says. She pauses a moment, clearing debating whether or not to say something else, and then adds, "And he had the Jedi with him."

Like one Jedi Master could stop an entire planetary invasion on their own.

Clarke stiffens under the sudden attention. Her face is stony and impassive.

"Clarke," Bellamy says, as gently as he can. "Is there something they could have done to incapacitate Master Anya so quickly?"

She doesn't answer immediately, and that's when Bellamy notices the darkening bruises blossoming around her throat. The bruises his sister put there.

"The Sith," Clarke says eventually, and something in her demeanor tells the rest of them that's all she's willing to say for the time being. Monroe sighs heavily, and next to her, Harper places her face in her hands and lets out a tiny groan of frustration.

Bellamy is still staring at Clarke's neck when he suggests they all take a break and reconvene. Someone pulls aside the tent flap and exclaims in surprise that the moon has crept across the sky already in the hours they have spent piecing together their information. Everyone files out in ones and twos, seeking fresh air and silence and dinner rations, until only he and Clarke remain. He catches her wrist before she follows, and gently tilts her chin up as she turns. He looks at the bruises, and for a moment they are both silent.

"I am sorry that this happened to you," Bellamy says eventually, because he doesn't know what else to say, and even now, he can't apologize for hiding Octavia from the Jedi.

They would have taken her away. His wild, wide-eyed, reckless dreamer of a sister. They would have taken her away and told him that it was the right thing to do, and maybe they would have been right, but Bellamy would have never forgiven himself. His mother certainly wouldn't have.

"Your sister displays some of the reckless emotional behaviour that is exactly the reason the Order takes custody of Force-sensitive children," Clarke says stiffly, like she's reciting from a manual.

"I know," Bellamy says. His own throat closes up, though his is uninjured, though it has no right or reason to. He looks down at the dirt beneath their feet. "Believe me, I know. We tried our best. When she started throwing tantrums because she could feel other kids her age having fun out on the street and all the furniture started flying around, we tried to teach her to control herself. We learned how to shield our minds together."

"You certainly developed your own technique," Clarke says, and he doesn't know what's funny, but he's relieved all the same when the corners of her mouth twitch with some distant amusement.

"We did our best," Bellamy says. He's trying to maintain eye contact with her, but the bruising keeps drawing his eyes down, a morbid magnetic pull. He swallows hard. "We were scared. I guess we didn't do a very good job. I'm sorry."

"An apology from her would mean more," Clarke says, but she reaches out and touches his arm with a careful, tentative hand, and it relaxes some of the self-loathing in him. It's something. “Did she ever hurt you?” Clarke asks, and his blood runs cold.

It takes him a while to find the right words, but Clarke’s face hardens as soon as he hesitates.

“She didn’t mean to,” Bellamy says quietly.

"She still shouldn’t have,” Clarke says, low and serious. Bellamy doesn’t look at her. After a moment, she reaches out and touches his arm. “Let's get some dinner," she says, and he’s glad to change the subject. They stay close as they leave the tent and follow the activity in the camp to a table set up near a bonfire hidden from patrols by a rocky overhang that shelters one side of the camp from weather and danger. 

Jasper and Monty apparently made the trip back to Octavia's ship during the meeting and returned with some of the relief supplies - the rebels are serving a warm stew and exclaiming over the first taste of caffeine they've had since the invasion. Bellamy and Clarke grab their portions in small tin bowls and find a fallen log at the edge of camp to sit down on. Octavia is on the opposite side, leaning against the rock, her arms crossed as she watches Jasper laugh and clink glasses with the cooks. Her gaze flickers to Bellamy, and he feels a little colder as she takes in the sight of him sitting together with Clarke. Octavia looks away, and Bellamy has the creeping sensation that he's lost something. Clarke is watching her too.

"She was born during Azgeda's first blockade, right? During the one-child policy?"

"Yeah," Bellamy says. "After Azgeda retreated, Jaha started pardoning some siblings. We were going to apply for legal citizenship. My mother talked about sending her to school - she'd started talking so quickly. But the day after we decided it was safe..."

"She started throwing furniture with her mind?" Clarke fills in, her tone knowing and a little darkly amused. From anyone else it would make him bristle. From her, Bellamy feels a sense of understanding.

"She started throwing furniture around with her mind," Bellamy confirms, and looks down at his stew instead of his angry sister. "So we hid her for another twelve years. Until my mother died, and then - " Bellamy breaks off then, remembering the chaos, remembering the first time he'd actually been scared of his sister's uncontrollable abilities, been scared of the way she raved about escaping the house and tearing people's memories of her out of their heads if she was seen. He swallows heavily. He doesn't want to mention that part. He doesn't want Clarke to think Octavia is a danger, that the Order needs to know. And she's not dangerous when she has her freedom, she hasn't scared Bellamy in a long time.

"Bellamy?" Clarke asks, gently touching the back of his hand. There's a lump in his throat he's having difficulty speaking around. He struggles anyway.

"I couldn't hide her anymore," he says eventually, and it's close enough to the truth that she refused to remain hidden. "But the palace had just opened applications for the internships. And even as an intern - it was a lot of money. More than we'd ever seen. And I got picked, somehow. And saved up the money, and I bought her that ship, and set her free, and the rest is history," Bellamy says softly. He looks down because Clarke's gaze is too intense.

He scrapes at the sides of the tin bowl with his spoon. It's a bit watery, and the Rodian takeout that Raven ordered back on Coruscant already feels like it happened a lifetime ago, but he's gone hungry before, as the son of a seamstress. He can do it again.

"Wells mentioned you were against bringing back the one child policy," Clarke says. "I remember being shocked. It was the first time I was forced to consider the possibility that you weren't a total asshole."

"Thanks," Bellamy says dryly.

"You're actually - " she says tentatively. He raises an eyebrow. "You're a good politician, actually. I'd vote for you."

"Well then, all we have to do to end the invasion is inspire the same sense of democracy in Azgeda," Bellamy jokes darkly.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, stretching out their portions of dinner as far as they'll go, watching the activity in the camp. Clarke scrapes at something at the bottom of her bowl.

"Can I ask a difficult question?" Clarke says suddenly. Bellamy tries not to obviously stiffen.

"Sure," he says, with forced ease.

"Would you tell me?" Clarke says. "If you thought Octavia was dangerous?"

She has the right to ask that question. She has every right. Even by the light of the moon and the distant campfire, he can still see the ring of shadowed skin around her neck. Bellamy takes a deep breath, drawing on the meditation techniques his mother drilled into them. He imagines an impenetrable desert between his mind and Clarke's, consumed with an unending sandstorm. He exhales.

"Yes," he lies.

Clarke looks away, and Bellamy can't tell if she believes him. He's a very good liar. He's had a lot of practice. But he thinks that even if Clarke weren't a Jedi, the sight of her piercing blue eyes could make his silver tongue stutter in its tracks.

 

 

 

 

 

**???**

 

`Authorization required: @Blackbird`  
`Password: **********`

`This server is not in your list of recognized machines. Would you like to add a security certificate (Y/N)? N`

`run module networkSniffer.rav`  
`3491576 results found`  
`filter -keyword azgeda -keyword arkadia`  
`82907 results found`  
`filter -keyword eligius`  
`297 results found`  
`filter -priority highToLow`

`ssh admin@az12.**.*.***`

`ERROR 403: FORBIDDEN. ACCESS DENIED. SYSTEM WIPE IN 10`  
`9`  
`8`  
`akskdkkdkf FUCK`  
`Error: command 'akskdkkdkf' not recognized. 'FUCK' is not a valid parameter. Press M for manual or contact a system administrator for additional help.`  
`7`  
`6`  
`5`  
`4`  
`run module $keletonKey.rav`

 

 

`SYSTEM WIPE aborted. Health check recommended to determine possible data loss.`

`$keletonKey: Encryption detected. Run preliminary analysis scripts (Y/N)? Y`

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Energy shields](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Deflector_shield) pop up in SW canon whenever it is (in)convenient and the way they function is also basically up to whatever's convenient to the plot. Sometimes they will allow slow-moving lifeforms to enter them but deflect missiles or blaster bolts. Sometimes it's just a one-way wall that you can enter but not exit.
> 
> [Rhydonium](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Rhydonium) is a made up Star Wars fuel that's valuable and rare. I almost went with hydrazine as a nod to the Eligius plot.
> 
> The scene with Zeke/Miles Shaw was written before the season 6 premiere took his character in a wildly different direction that I do not agree with. I liked the cautious, morally ambiguous Zeke from season 5. :( I also liked him a l i v e.
> 
> The glowing forest is a callback to season 1, when that [absolutely beautiful and romantic scene](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/thehundred/images/2/25/B2Dv2lT.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20140429031500) was utterly wasted on Finn Fuckboy Collins. I am still upset that the writers never brought that back up. WHY would you make a PRETTY RADIOACTIVE FOREST and then NEVER INCLUDE IT AGAIN, and other poor choices that Jroth made: coming soon to tabloid stands near you.
> 
> I am not sure if that stuff about Force-sensitive children is canon or fanon or a mix of both. In Phantom Menace the Jedi debate over whether or not to train Anakin even though he's "old" presumably because helping him develop his power could make him more dangerous. It's a sort of damned if you do, damned if you don't situation, where the only "solution" the Jedi have found so far is to send a space monk to your house to gently but firmly whisk your toddler away to boarding school and not allow them to develop any healthy attachments ever. There's a lot of debate in the SW fandom as to whether or not the Jedi were justified and what they could have done better. It's fascinating stuff, but I'm not really interested in answering the question myself. Clarke is on one side of the debate because of her experiences, Bellamy is on the other because of his experiences, and I'm just here for the feels! As are you, probably.
> 
> About that mysterious snippet of code at the end: that is NOT an accurate depiction of hacking, like not even close. Although I have borrowed from existing network protocols, if servers self-destructed the first time some idiot ssh-ed into them, the internet would have collapsed decades ago! It's been heavily edited for dramatic effect and would make my manager cringe. 🤡


	7. just once and we never speak of it again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNING:** honestly, can't think of any. There's a little bit of injury and the existential dread that accompanies climate change lately.

**???**

 

` run $keletonKey.Overview -verbose `

` ESTABLISHING LOCAL CONNECTION FOR USER @Blackbird `

` config file = [u'/home/blackbird/viruses/$keletonKey'] `

` [WARNING]: Do Not Disrupt Power To System While In Progress. `

` System Wipe tripwire detected: attempting to disable tripwire, please wait. `

` System Wipe tripwire disabled.....................................................................SUCCESS. `

` running preliminary analysis scripts... `

` $keletonKey: Preliminary analysis scripts complete. `

` 37 layers of encryption detected. `

 

 

 

` [secure message server 33-H4GP496] `

 

` [TO: Shaw, Zeke] `

` [FROM: unknown source] `

` [SUBJ: no subject] `

 

` Z, followed up on your tip. Damn. need you to get in contact with C, buy us some time. the moles don't have good exhaust ventilation, should be xtra blowupable if you leave a few engines running. start w that. `

` also let C know im stealing her identity to buy an astromech. these encryptions are WILD and before you get sassy I COULD crack them on my own, but... tick tock, swallowing my pride, etc `

 

` ~~love~~ `

` ~~be safe~~ `

` ~~im glad you're~~ `

` don't do anything dumb, R. `

 

` Encrypt (Y/N)? Y `

` Send (Y/N)? Y `

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

For the next few weeks, life in the rebel camp hurtles along with a speed that shouldn't surprise Clarke anymore, considering how many missions she's been on.

But until now, she always had Anya by her, and it was Anya who made the frantic pace of guerilla warfare seem slower. It's her attitude, Clarke thinks. Anya has a way of leaning back and crossing her arms when everyone else in a room is yelling, and observing the chaos around her with a vague air of contempt, like the eye of a hurricane unimpressed with the whirling debris around it. Everything gravitates back to her eventually, the silence, the expectant attention as arguments die down and people turn to wait for her judgement on a difficult decision. She'd make them wait for it, mulling over every word.

Clarke misses her Master with an ache she both resents and covets. She pokes at it like a bruise. It might make her a bad Jedi, but every time she's in the war council with Lieutenants Monroe and Harper, Clarke keeps turning to look over her shoulder, where Anya should be standing with her arms crossed and her face looking impassive. The first few times, her Master's absence makes Clarke reel.

Eventually, she starts turning to Bellamy instead. To both their shock, they settle quickly into a capable dynamic.

He's nothing like Anya. He never sits back silently, for once, and Clarke doesn't hesitate to criticize the flaws in his suggestions like she might have hesitated to publicly oppose her Master. Bellamy has the advantages of familiarity with Arkadia's wilderness and with a good portion of the rebel infrastructure. His faith in her makes the other leaders of the resistance quickly welcome her into the fold, carefully considering her battle experience and slotting her Jedi abilities into attack strategies.

They spend evenings in the war council, bent over sketches of Azgedan movements and scouring their maps and intel for weaknesses to exploit. Bellamy takes to staying up well into the night, as long as he can until the exhaustion takes his toll and he starts sleeping on a pile of blankets in the corner of the council's tent. Clarke stays with him, of course, because in the absence of new orders it's still her duty to protect him. The population of the rebel camp grows and grows as they find more refugees and freedom fighters alike. Some stay only temporarily, seeking shelter with them before they're smuggled to safer portions of the planet. After Azgeda's last invasion, nearly two decades ago, Wells' father grew obsessed with security and built bunkers all around the planet in case of another emergency... like this one. Other survivors choose to remain to expand their ranks instead of hiding, and with them, the camp itself grows. They build rough cabins, camouflaged from overhead flybys with plenty of vegetation from the forest. The war council tent is taken down and replaced with a larger structure with two makeshift bedrooms in the back for Bellamy and Miller and Clarke. The war council reconvenes in what passes for their living room.

They spend their days making life as difficult as possible for Azgeda. One of the first missions Monroe insists on, now that the rebels have a Jedi on their side, is breaking into a series of hangers on the outskirts of Coronet City and stealing starships and rovers for the rebels - nothing large or spectacular, but it lets them connect with other rebel pockets around the planet and pick fights with the troops guarding the Eligius mining operations. Whenever she's not needed on other missions, Clarke heads to Coronet City with a few others, trying to get a better look at the defenses they'll be up against when they rescue Anya and Wells from the locked-down palace. Bellamy knows an underground passage into the city, underneath the city's borders. Clarke tries to insist he doesn't need to come after the first time he points it out to them, but Bellamy has as much training with his blaster as the palace guards do, and nothing she says could keep him from the front lines of their -

Well.

Clarke hesitates to call it a war.

She and Bellamy let the other rebels exclaim over their stolen starfighters and blasters and explosives, because if they don't have hope, then they have nothing. But they don't join in any of the celebrations, after successful missions. Clarke watches the Force ebb and flow around the rebels, drawn like a moth to a light by their stubborn faith in freedom, and Bellamy watches the skies for his sister to return with relief supplies and news from Coruscant, and they both quietly know they are not going to win this war.

They're barely putting a dent in Azgeda's operations. The starfighters that they send in to fire on Eligius equipment are like flies buzzing around their heads. They only manage to destroy a few drills and trucks every run before they're chased off by Azgeda's larger ships.

They're an annoyance to Azgeda, at best.

But what can they do? Clarke's not sure surrender even exists in Bellamy's vocabulary, and though it exists in hers, the thought of it makes her want to puke in the shadows behind their cabin. Even if they didn't still hold Wells and Anya prisoner, it's not in her nature to let the bad guys win, not when there's always one more desperate thing she could try. She knows what the right thing to do is, even if it's taking the Order a long time to come around.

So she and Bellamy keep leading their rebels out on hopeless missions against impossible odds, and at night she dreams about the impenetrable energy shield that surrounds the palace where Wells and Anya are prisoners, and they wake up, dawn after endless dawn, to keep fighting.

And then one evening, when they're pouring over their new reports in the war council and trying to keep their voices down so they don't worry the rebels outside, a clamour rises up in the camp.

Bellamy shuts up in the middle of a passionate rant about securing another bunker for another wave of newly freed Arkadians, and Monroe, who is closest to the door, gives all of them an uneasy look before reaching out and pushing it open.

Someone is being dragged on their knees into the camp, through the perimeter, into the light of the campfire. Clarke can't see who it is in the darkness, only stark silhouettes against the orange flames. The figure on their knees doubles over as one of the rebels kicks them in the stomach. Others hold tight to the figure's arms and haul them back up, as another rebel winds back their fist for a punch. The crack of knuckles against cheekbones shocks Clarke out of her stillness, and she's out the door and running into the camp before anyone else in the war council.

"Hey!" Clarke calls out over the crowd's jeers and insults. They part for her, making a path straight to the mob's victim, but hostile murmurs still echo through the hollow. "What's going on?"

Bellamy is right on her heels and he brushes past her and hauls two of the assailants away with unexpected strength. The figure on his knees coughs and gasps for breath, and slowly raises his head to meet Clarke's eyes. It's not a face Clarke recognizes from around camp, even when she tries to imagine it without the cut lip and the black eye. The uniform, however - she recognizes that, and if she didn't, the bold black letters that spell ELIGIUS on the stranger's chest would clue her in.

"We found him in the woods, alone," one of the rebels says.

"Enough, Mbege," Bellamy says tightly, putting a hand out to stop Mbege from throwing the punch he clearly really wants to squeeze in. "This isn't how we should treat prisoners."

"I'm trying to find Clarke Griffin," the stranger wheezes, staring straight at her. Clarke's had to borrow some new clothing from other women in the camp, but she's still wearing her brown robes for warmth against the evening chill, and her lightsaber is visibly clipped on to her belt. It doesn't take a genius to guess her identity.

Several rebels back away from her, and the hostile mutters increase.

"Raven Reyes sent me," the stranger insists. The eye that hasn't swollen shut is pleading. "She said you'd make a deal."

"We'll see about that," Bellamy says, his voice cool even as the usual muscle in his jaw twitches with restrained tension. "Mbege, take a walk. Now. You two, bring him into the war room. No one hits him again until we've heard him out."

"I need clean water and a rag," Clarke adds quickly, and Harper volunteers with a sigh when other rebels turn away in disgust.

"He's an enemy!" Mbege calls out over the heads of the crowd as they return to the war cabin.

"No," Bellamy says, turning back around to glare at him. "He's an opportunity."

Even so, when they sit the Eligius worker down in a chair, Monroe and Miller waste no time in tying his limbs down. The stranger doesn't complain, though he does wince as the knots are tightened. Harper returns with a bowl of warm water and a scrap of a towel, and Clarke starts cleaning the blood and dirt away from the stranger's face.

"How do you know Raven?" Bellamy asks.

"I sold her engine parts a few years ago," the stranger says, his eyes closed as Clarke gently drags the rag across his swollen eyelid. "We kept in touch. She's - a friend. I told her I got assigned to Arkadia, and she said she had friends who would pay well if I agreed to help sabotage Eligius."

"You're not here out of the goodness of your own heart?" Bellamy asks dryly. The stranger cracks one eye open.

"I'm a convict," he says flatly. "Eligius owns me until I pay them off. If I help you for free, and they find out, they're going to kill me. I'm not going to risk my life for the galaxy's smallest rebellion unless I've got the funds to escape right afterwards."

"What can you offer us?" Monroe asks, jutting her chin out defiantly.

"Mining plans," the stranger says instantly. "Blueprints for all the equipment we use, where it'll be dispatched, what's hardest to replace and will slow us down the most. I can buy you time," he says. "Because as it stands right now, your planet only has about a month before we drill enough to make it completely unstable."

"What do you mean, unstable?" Monty asks sharply.

"I mean Eligius will have poked enough holes in your planet's crust to throw the magnetic field so out of whack that your ozone layer erodes and exposes half the planet to massive amounts of solar radiation."

"Monty, is that as bad as it sounds?" Bellamy asks. Monty winces.

"Yeah, pretty much."

Clarke and Bellamy exchange a glance.

"How much time would your information buy us?" Clarke asks, her throat thick when she thinks of Arkadia's people ravaged by storms and its forests crumbling into the planet's core. This is Wells' home, and it has always had a place for her. She won't let it be destroyed.

"An extra month and a half, maybe," the stranger says with a shrug. "Enough to come up with another plan, or evacuate your people."

None of them can hide their dismayed reaction to his estimate. Monroe turns away for a moment, head bowed, her hand covering her mouth. Miller bites his lip and stares up at the ceiling, exhaling heavily. Clarke and Bellamy lock gazes, and she sees her own grief reflected in his eyes. Two more months. They both know it won't be long enough for the Senate to dig their heads out of the sand and agree on a plan that will save them, especially not with Senator Echo slowing things down on Azgeda's behalf.

"It's better than nothing," Clarke says to him desperately, trying to convince herself of it as well. Bellamy only nods slowly, and then turns away, a hand on his chin, lost in thought.

"Are all Eligius workers convicts?" Bellamy asks after a moment.

"Yes sir," the stranger says, though the underlying sarcasm doesn't make the _sir_ sound very valuable.

"How many others would you say would work against Azgeda?" Bellamy asks, and Clarke looks at him sharply, her mind already racing with the possibilities. "Given the right incentive?"

"Do you have that much money?" the stranger asks dryly.

"We can offer land, as well," Bellamy says. "After we defeat Azgeda, there will be a lot to rebuild. We could use the help. Do you know anyone who would sabotage Eligius if we promise them a home and a new life on Arkadia?"

"Convicts," Monroe hisses under her breath, as though they might have not heard that part.

The stranger is eyeing Bellamy warily.

"Some," he says cagely. He thinks for a moment. "There are two main camps, in Eligius. Diyoza's people, and McCreary's. You'd waste your breath on McCreary's. They just like blowing things up. But Diyoza might be interested, and she has a loyal group."

"Can you pass on a message to Diyoza, then?" Bellamy asks. "Can you ask her if she'll fight with us?"

"Deal," he says.

"You can't go back to Eligius like this," Clarke says, stepping forward and raising her hands non-threateningly. "Not without raising questions. Can I heal you?"

"Jedi stuff?" the stranger asks, eyeing her hands. "Sure. Why not. Always wanted to see cool Jedi stuff."

Unfortunately for him, Force-healing isn't particularly exciting for a viewer. Clarke gently brushes the injuries to his face and presses her palms to his bruised ribs and thinks of warmth and growth. The torn flesh knits back together, forming natural scabs and scars and finally new skin, only much faster than the natural healing process. The stranger sighs in relief as the swelling around his eye recedes and he blinks it open. By the time she's finished, Monroe has his bonds untied.

"What's your name?" Clarke asks as the stranger rubs at his wrists in satisfaction.

"Ezekiel Shaw," he says with a nod in their direction. "Zeke, since we're going to be friends."

"Raven's usually a pretty good judge of character," Clarke says lightly. "If she vouched for you, we'll give it a shot."

"She had a message to pass on,” Zeke says with a small smile. "Said to tell you she’s using your bank account to buy a droid."

"Nice of her to let me know," Clarke says dryly.

She meets Bellamy's eyes and sees in them the renewed spark of a fire she didn't realize was going out, too overwhelmed by her own fading optimism. It gets her heart pumping.

Later, after they've sorted things out with Zeke, after he's given them the datachip he was hiding, after they've seen him off to his Eligius camp, Clarke is still buzzing with energy. The rebels have turned in for the night, the fire banked, the sentries settling in for their shift at the edges of the bioluminescent forest.

She can't sleep. 

Miller and Bellamy are in bed, but Bellamy is still awake, his face illuminated by the blue glow of the hologram of Arkadia that he's studying intently. Clarke sits down next to him without another thought, and he shifts so she has some room on the blankets, and he starts pointing out areas of interest on the hologram to her without prompting. Miller already had his blankets pulled up over his head to block out the light, but their speaking is apparently where he draws the line. He stands up with an exaggerated groan and carries his blankets over to the next bedroom, although it's not like the walls are sturdy enough to really block out their voices. Clarke and Bellamy heckle him good-naturedly, but only for another moment, and then Clarke leans in closer and they whisper instead.

Bellamy must turn off the hologram at some point, because Clarke remembers leaning her head on his shoulder in the darkness, still sleepily murmuring about a raiding mission she thinks has been planned too hastily. He answers her with the deep, slow breathing of the dreaming. She'd be indignant about it, if she were any more awake herself, but instead Clarke turns her face, pressing her cheek in to the warmth of his sleeve, and lets sleep take her too.

In the morning Clarke wakes with a violent jerk as someone outside their cabin drops a crate. Bellamy groans quietly and hides his face in the crook of one arm. The other is around Clarke's waist. She eases herself out from under it, heart beating so wildly that she thinks it alone could wake him up, and flees.

He's awake when she returns with breakfast rations, and if he remembers the night, he says nothing as she passes him his portion. They hurry to scarf down breakfast and pack the rover for another scouting trip.

After that Miller starts going to bed in Clarke's room when they stay up late talking, and Clarke doesn't always go to Miller's pallet before falling asleep. It's a terrible, dangerous habit. She starts growing used to the sight of Bellamy's curls first thing in the morning, and his arm occasionally slung over her stomach when they're not awake enough to remember why not to encourage that.

They still don't talk about it.

And if Clarke finds herself looking longer when he debates with his famous passion, when he drags a frustrated hand through his increasingly unruly hair, when he crouches down to speak softly to scared young Arkadian refugees, well - can anyone blame her?

She becomes aware of her growing attraction to him like one notices morning sunlight. At first it's just a pleasant, unexpected warmth, a stirring in her chest that she greets with curiosity. It quickly becomes stronger than she bargained for.

Clarke makes more of an effort to sleep in her own blankets, not to curl into Bellamy when he reaches for her in his sleep, not to watch his shoulders as he cuts firewood for a pair of discreetly giggling cooks. She makes more of an effort - she swears - but they're running themselves ragged, trying to be everywhere at once to fight Azgeda. She still frequently wakes up with a cramped neck, having fallen asleep upright next to him, and -

He loves so fiercely.

Clarke sees him interacting with their rebels and awful thoughts crowd her mind, wondering why the Order is so scared of attachment, why they'd forbid emotions that only make people braver and stronger and more determined.

(That's a lie. She knows why it's forbidden.

She cries racking, painful sobs in the back of the rover after more missions to Coronet City when she still can't find a way into the palace, can't find anything that will pass through the shield in between her and Wells and Anya, can't find an exploitable hiccup in the patrols guarding Wells' beloved gardens.)

Then Bellamy gets shot during a mission. A blaster bolt through the shoulder. He falls with a cry that makes her blood run cold, but even then, even when her heart stops at the sound of his pain, Clarke still can't regret caring. Even when it hurts so much.

 

 

 

 

 

**THE UNDERWORLD, CORUSCANT**

 

Windchimes made from scrap metal and nuts and bolts tinkle as the shop door closes behind Raven. She eyes them wistfully for a moment before limping forwards, moving slowly between the racks of merchandise that are piled so heavily she swears they're swaying under their own weight.

From the back of the shop, a Dug holds onto the counter and eyes her suspiciously. He's rubbing engine grease off of a wheel axle with an equally dirty rag held in his dexterous feet.

"Need help, Twi'lek?" he asks.

"I know what I'm looking for, thanks," Raven says, not snidely, but enough to make the Dug give her a second look. He eyes the multitool hanging from her belt and the cogs visible in her mechanical ankle where her overalls don't quite meet her boot, and sniffs, apparently satisfied.

Raven appreciates the quiet as she ducks down another aisle and finds a line-up of powered down droids, their lights gone dark, their processors silent. The astromechs are at one end, some having waited for an owner for so long that they've gathered dust. Raven eyes an R2 unit longingly - one of the only units valued enough by the shopkeeper that he's apparently polished its white-and-blue case recently - but the price tag makes her move on quickly.

"You've got good taste," the Dug says as she gives the R2 a longing look. She didn't hear him sneaking up on her, but he's there now, practically stepping on her feet as he moves to polish the line of price tags.

"Good taste and a good handle on my wallet," Raven warns the Dug.

He snorts.

"How about a solid C1 unit, eh?" he asks, patting the head of a nearby antique model with his foot. It makes an echoing _clunk_  in the shop. "This one is in good repair. Practically new."

"No thanks," Raven says, trying to walk past him. "Their personality matrices are a little cheeky for my tastes."

"An ALI unit, then?" he says, scurrying ahead of her to tug another astromech out of the lineup. "Discounted, just for you."

"Isn't that the series that would blow up when it exited hyperspace?" Raven asks dryly.

"That was the first series, maybe a few blew up, there are rumours," the Dug concedes hastily. "But this is the 2.0 version! Will definitely not kill you."

"Why's it discounted then?" Raven asks, kneeling to get a better look at the little red-and-black droid he's pushing forward.

"Because everyone makes the same conclusion as you," the Dug says sadly.

"Power her up," Raven decides. The Dug immediately wipes the pitiful pout off his long face and hastens to disable the droid's power lock.

It wakes with a series of playful chirps and beeps. A small LED display on its head arranges little red lights to show a yawning emoticon, then a smiling one.

"Hello to you too," Raven says despite herself. "Do you have a Holonet connection? Look up the spontaneous combustion rates for your series, please."

The LED displays a tiny microscope. Raven masks a laugh with a cough. A moment later, the astromech confirms the Dug's claim. The manufacturer has apparently already repaired the disastrous glitch in their previous series, and the past year of user reviews speaks highly of the 2.0s computations.

"Not bad," Raven says. "How fast can you calculate a hyperdrive jump?"

The droid whistles quickly.

"Can you decode a Walden encryption?"

Another whistle.

"Show me your multitool," Raven says, and the droid opens one of its front compartments and a little arm extends, brandishing various tools like a formidable Chiss army knife. A spark of electricity dances between two of the extensions. A cascade of cheerful beeps follows. Raven turns to the Dug. "She'll do."

"Of course, there's a commission on top of the listed price..." the Dug says hurriedly. Raven rolls her eyes.

"No there isn't," she says. "You're lucky I'm willing to buy. No one's walked through your astromech section in ages."

"How dare - !"

Raven points to the ground. History is written in the dust on the floor. Aside from Raven's footprints there are only the Dug's handprints, both recent and fading as he came to occasionally polish the R2 unit and went on his way.

He grumbles at her as Raven hands over the money, and ALI-E2 chirps a farewell before following Raven out the door.

Raven looks down at her little astromech keeping perfect pace with her limp.

"I didn't want to say it in front of him, but you're adorable," she says. The droid animates a pair of cartoon sunglasses dropping down to rest above its smile. Raven pats the top of its chassis. "Unfortunately for you, your job description includes more than looking cute."

The droid whistles inquisitively.

"I have some very tasty encryptions at home for you to break," Raven says. She grins the sort of grin that makes people cross the street to avoid her. "You and I are gonna help take down an empire."

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Clarke is so focused on the Azgedan soldiers firing at them from the back of the hangar that she doesn't see the ones that circle around through the bay doors. Bellamy scrambles for his blaster as the second troop takes up position, and Clarke is still focused on the first, her lightsaber cutting through the air as she knocks aside their blaster bolts.

"Look out - " Bellamy has time to say, and then his shoulder burns, the impact knocking him backwards onto the ground.

"Bellamy!" Clarke cries out, and she abandons her guard duty to drag him behind the pile of crates they're supposed to be stealing. His face is scrunched with pain, breath coming out in choked, panicked gasps, as the burnt flesh underneath his gloved hand steams. "Bellamy, let me see it."

" - hurts," he croaks, opening his eyes as she knocks his hand away to look at the damage. His eyes are bright and afraid as he struggles to focus on her face. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hangar they're robbing are suddenly too painful to look at. Her hair spills over her shoulder and brushes his cheeks as she bends over the injury. The Padawan braid _thwacks_ him in the nose. 

"I know," Clarke says, crouched over him protectively. Her hands flutter uselessly over him, her face anguished and indecisive. "Bellamy, I know you said not to use - but we're pinned down - can I heal you?"

"Just make it stop hurting," he manages to get out, and she presses her palm to the wound with no more hesitation. Bellamy groans as a gentle coolness sinks through his fevered flesh. His skin itches as it seals, but the relief is instantaneous. He exhales all at once, slumping backwards against the crates they're sheltered behind. 

"You still have to get up, I'm not doing all the work," Clarke says, and then she's standing again, her lightsaber back in her hand, diverting blaster bolts back into the Azgedan bodies that fired them with renewed determination. In battle, she's the most beautiful and terrible thing he's ever seen. One of the soldiers made a run for them while Bellamy was down and Clarke sinks the lightsaber through his torso as he tries to vault over their crate barrier. Bellamy hears him gurgle and looks away. This isn't the worst fight they've been in, but seeing death up close never ceases to make his skin crawl. He understands why some cultures make signs to ward off evil when they hear the name Jedi. He understands why those same planets petition the Order for help anyway.

"I've got it," Bellamy mutters, dragging himself upright again and reaching for the last crates they're meant to load in the back of their rover.

"Can you lift them, with your shoulder?" Clarke asks without looking at him, focused on diverting the shots that come too close to them with her lightsaber. Bellamy shoves his weight against the crates in response, and lets out a quiet hiss of pain as his injured shoulder spasms in protest.

"I'll cover you if you lift them into the rover," Bellamy says quickly, and he pulls out his blaster and fires a barrage of shots at the Azgedan soldiers, forcing them to duck behind other cargo. Clarke takes the opening to move their crates without having to watch her back. She thrusts out her free palm and the crates quiver before the Force lifts them through the open doors.

"Got them," Clarke says, and steps back out in front of him, her lightsaber a bright blue blur as she knocks bolts away from Bellamy. He holsters his blaster and climbs into the rover, trusting Clarke to follow when she hears the engines. He throws himself into the driver's seat and his hands find the steering wheel by muscle memory. The rover sputters to a start beneath his touch, and a _thud_ from the back tells Bellamy that Clarke's jumped into the trunk. 

The Azgedan troop up ahead has gotten reckless, seeing them about to make their escape. Bellamy drives through the arrow-head formation that runs up to confront them with gritted teeth. Whoever doesn't jump out of the rover's way isn't his responsibility. Fabric swishes against his shoulder as Clarke slips into the seat next to him. 

"Hangar doors are closing," she says, blue eyes fixed straight ahead on the gap left between the massive metal doors in their way. Sirens flash red, a warning not to be in the way when they meet. 

"I see them," Bellamy says dryly, hitting the gas. 

Clarke unhooks the comm from the rover's ceiling in response and brings it to her mouth. 

"Alpha Squadron, report," she orders. "Everyone out?"

"Alpha 3 is clear," Monroe answers first, just as Bellamy's cleared the hangar doors with room to spare.

"Alpha 2 on our way," Harper says next, blasterfire echoing in the back of her transmission. 

"Are you in danger, Harper?" Clarke asks urgently. 

"Doing just fine, Alpha leader!" Harper replies cheerfully. Bellamy and Clarke exchange a look before he goes back to paying attention to dodging around the barriers Azgeda's tried setting up in the hangar field. The hole they've torn in the electrical fence still sparks weakly as the rover barrels through, and then they're careening out into Arkadia's wilderness, pavement giving way to dried leaves. They don't relax until they put a long stretch of forest between them and the hangar. 

"Good run, Alpha Squadron," Bellamy says, grabbing the comm from Clarke's hand and grinning at her.

"Speak for yourself," Clarke says furiously, flicking her wrist to take the comm back with the Force and snap it into place on the ceiling. "You got _shot_."

"I'm fine," he says. He glances at her, and glances away. His voice goes quiet. "I had my partner next to me."

He pretends he doesn't hear her breath hitch at that. 

"What if I'm not there next time, huh? What then, Bellamy?"

"It was a successful mission," he says stubbornly. 

He should know by now that won't be the last of it - they've scarcely returned back to camp and started unpacking the shipment of food and medicine they've stolen before Clarke grabs a fistful of his shirt and discretely drags him into their cabin. The door bangs behind her so hard that the lantern hanging from a bent nail in the ceiling swings alarmingly as she pushes him backwards into the table. Its metal grill casts dancing shadows over both of them.

"Let me see," she insists, and Bellamy sighs long-sufferingly before he shrugs off his coat and starts taking his shirt off. He doesn't manage to hide his wince as the stiff muscles in his shoulder pull painfully. Clarke absently points her palm upwards, and the lantern swinging chaotically overhead stills instantaneously. Bellamy yelps as she presses her thumb into his scar tissue. "I did a shoddy job," she says mournfully. 

"You did a great job," Bellamy bites back. He sits on the table and Clarke steps closer, drawn by his comforting hand on the back of her ribcage. "We were pinned between two squads and you had only a single minute to heal me before we were overtaken. It's fine."

"You shouldn't have been injured in the first place," Clarke says, and her hands slip from his shoulder to his bare chest. That familiar crease in her forehead is there again, if it ever left. Bellamy reaches up and tries to smooth it out with his thumb, willing her to relax, to feel safe again. Her eyes flutter shut and she sighs heavily, pressing her forehead into his hand. "That's the second time I've let that happen," she mutters. 

"First doesn't count," Bellamy says, though he still wakes up sometimes remembering the flash of lightning. "It was a Sith. Freak accident. No one could have stopped that."

Clarke swears at him quietly, but there's no heat to it, no bite. With the adrenaline wearing off, they're both exhausted by the day's mission. She opens her eyes to blink at him, and looks down, and they both abruptly realize her hands are still resting on his bare chest. 

One of Bellamy's hands flies up and wraps around her wrist loosely, but he doesn't pull her away or pull her closer. He doesn't know what to do. He swallows thickly as they make eye contact. The silence between them, brimming with possibility, dwarfs the sounds of celebration from the rebel camp beyond their door.

"We shouldn't," Clarke says quietly, searching his eyes for something.

"I know," Bellamy says tiredly. But he also knows that Clarke still falls asleep in the middle of their debrief talks more often than she makes it back to her own bed, and that her gaze lingers on him too long around camp, and that he's not the only one who notices the tension, the temptation. She doesn't drop her hands, so he doesn't drop his gaze from her face. Bellamy takes it all in. That furrow in her forehead as she wars with herself, the lantern's gold light reflected in her blue eyes, the scrape a tree branch left on her cheek the other day that she hasn't bothered to mend.

Once he would have thrown walls up around his mind, braced himself for an intrusion under the heavy weight of her gaze, but it never comes. 

Clarke closes her eyes and her shoulders slump.

"One kiss," she says, barely above a whisper as Bellamy's heart thunders wildly against the constraints of his chest. "Just one, and we never speak of this again."

It's not enough, but - 

Bellamy raises a hand to cup her cheek and leans forward. Her hands slide from his chest to his hips as she steps closer, then her arms wrap around his back. Bellamy shivers as her palms spread flat against his bare skin. He's nearly dizzy with how much he wants her. He presses his jaw to hers first, wills his heart to slow, tries to linger in the moment of anticipation. If he only gets one kiss, he intends to suffer as much as humanely possible for it.

"Bellamy," Clarke breathes, and he surrenders, turning his head and meeting her lips. His hand slips from her cheek to the nape of her neck, and his fingers brush something stiff in her hair. The Padawan braid. The reason he shouldn't be doing this. Bellamy brushes the braid aside and deepens the kiss, running his tongue along her chapped lips.

Neither of them wants to break it. They're eventually forced to part to catch their breath, but Bellamy keeps her close, pressing gentle kisses to her jaw until she turns her face and kisses him back again, and - _this still counts as one kiss, doesn't it?_ he thinks desperately, his head spinning as she exhales reverently against him. _If we haven't parted yet?_

A particularly loud whoop from the camp makes Clarke jerk backwards, and Bellamy bites back his protest, resigning himself to the loss of her warmth as she pulls away. She looks well-kissed, he notes, as though it's helpful to notice the flush on her cheeks, the way her pupils have gone large and dark, her chest rising under her Jedi tunic as she takes in a deep, brave breath. The memory of her hands clutching at his back is already growing less vivid. His fingers twitch as he resists the urge to reach for her.

"I don't regret it," Clarke says, her voice almost apologetic. _But you won't be sleeping in my room tonight, will you,_ Bellamy wants to say, and he forces himself not to. He can only nod and let her walk away. It's a bittersweet victory that he manages to wait until she's left the cabin to groan and put his head in his hands. 

They're fighting a war here, a hopeless one. They don't have time to figure out his lonely heart. And even if they did - Clarke is the _last_ person he should be falling for. The only way this can end is with her breaking his heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you we weren't done with the bedsharing yet. ;)
> 
> The thing about Eligius' drilling destabilizing the planet's magnetic field was contrived because I wanted to reference the wave of radiation from Season 4, but after I wrote it [I went digging to see how bullshit it was and ACTUALLY](https://www.livescience.com/18426-earth-magnetic-poles-flip.html) major fluctuations in a magnetic field CAN weaken an ozone layer and allow more solar radiation to pass through, so it's only partially bullshit. My total guess is slightly more scientific than Jroth's everything, so we're gonna put some sci-fi glitter on that concept and call it a day!
> 
> [Dugs](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Dug) are the species of that rude, horse-faced jerk who Anakin races in Phantom Menace. I like them because their anatomy is an evolutionary slap in the face.
> 
> The R2 unit is, naturally, referencing R2-D2, the sarcastic shit we all know and love. The [C1 unit](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/C1-10P) is a nod to Star Wars: Rebels. I'm not powerful enough to write the sarcasm that would result from Chopper and Raven in the same place.
> 
> Chiss army knife == Swiss army knife. The Swiss do not exist in the star wars universe, unfortunately, but [the Chiss](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Chiss) do exist, and they seem like the sort of people who would like funky knives. 
> 
> Several months ago I was 100k into this fic and asked @Jekisawrites if anyone else would care, and she said that if the two of us were the only readers, it would still be worth it. Every kudos and kind comment on top of that has been a surprise and a _delight_. If you love this fic and want to help me get the word out, consider [reblogging it on tumblr](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/post/184302159780/luminous-beings-in-a-galaxy-far-far-awayprince). You guys have been great and this has been such a lovely way to come back to the fandom after a long hiatus. Thank you so much for reading :)


	8. skeleton key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** None, I think! As always if you need to request specific warnings you can always message me on tumblr privately.

 

**???**

 

`ESTABLISHING LOCAL CONNECTION FOR USER @Blackbird`

`run $keletonKey.Overview -verbose`

`[WARNING]: Do Not Disrupt Power To System While In Progress.`

`Downloading and decrypting 742936 files........................................... 12% complete`

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

"It's astounding, actually, how bad you are at this," Miller comments from the lake's shore. He's stretched out on a nearby rock like a cat warming in the early morning sun, at the edge of the forest's shadows where they can all retreat if an Azgedan patrol flies over the lake. The majority of their clothes are drying on the rock around him, leaving Clarke in her breastband and a pair of borrowed fatigues that she has rolled up to her knees. It's not the worst bath she's ever taken, but certainly shaping up to be one of the most entertaining.

"Shut up," Clarke says, with no real heat to it. She and Jasper are ankle deep in the cold water. Tiny fish dart around their ankles, chasing each other, unaware of the bigger picture. Her toes have long since gone numb, and Jasper is complaining about his as well. She wiggles them experimentally in the silty bed of the lake as Jasper picks his way along the line of pebbles left at the edge of the lake by a higher water line.

"Here's a good one," Jasper says, picking a stone and splashing through the water towards Clarke. She takes it and rubs her fingers appreciatively against its smooth, flat surface. She crouches in the lake and takes aim. "No, no," Jasper says, hurriedly adjusting her elbow. "Miller's right, you're awful."

Clarke laughs and flicks the stone as hard as she can. She releases it at the wrong angle despite Jasper's attempts to help and it drops into the lake with a single, incriminating _plop_. From the shore Miller lets out a groan and Jasper puts his hands on his horned head.

"You're fucking with us, right?" Jasper says. "You can't actually be this bad at skipping stones."

"Master Anya made me do it with the Force," Clarke says between laughter. "Look, I swear - "

She digs around until she finds another flat stone and focuses on it. She still gives it an initial flick with her wrist but catches it with the Force before it can sink into the water, redirecting its momentum up and onward across the surface of the lake. It leaves half a dozen skips before she loosens her concentration on it and lets it sink underworld. The ripples in its wake travel outwards and disperse, leaving the lake smooth and calm once again.

"That doesn't count," Jasper says immediately.

"How can you do that and _not_ be able to do it the easy way?" Miller says.

Footsteps and chatter approaching from the forest have them all glancing up and alert. Miller rests one hand on his blaster, his face carefully blank, before the new arrivals walk around a dense flowering bush and they all relax. It's just Harper and Monroe, each carrying a crate.

"Morning!" Harper says cheerfully. She toes off her boots at the edge of the forest and steps onto the pebbly beach with a quiet hum of pleasure. "Done with the soap?"

"It's all yours," Clarke calls back. She walks to shore, tiny fish darting out of her way. "Laundry day for you, too?"

"Kind of," Monroe says, prying off the lid of the first crate. They all peer in to see the blue-gray shade of Azgedan armour that is quickly becoming familiar. "Roma and I stumbled across a patrol this morning and decided to alleviate them of their uniforms. We got a little blood on them, but if we can clean up well enough they might be useful if we ever need disguises for a mission."

"Good thinking," Miller says with approval.

"What did you do with the bodies?" Clarke asks quickly.

"Relax, Jedi," Harper says with an easy smile. "We know what we're doing."

Monroe pulls out the first uniform and shakes it out. They quickly find a tear and an accompanying stain under the uniform's armpit.

"Ah, that was my bad," Monroe says. "He moved faster than I was expecting."

"It's all right," Harper says. "We'll ask Bellamy to sew it up."

"Bellamy?" Clarke echoes. Her ears burn and she pats self-consciously at her hair, hoping her blush isn't visible. As far as she knows, Bellamy hasn't told the whole camp about their kiss. There's no reason for her heart to speed up every time his name is mentioned or she sees him on the other side of camp.

"His mother was a seamstress, didn't you know?" Harper says. "Some people tried to make it a big deal during the election, but it didn't work out for them. Anyway he's got the neatest stitches in camp."

"Yeah Clarke," Jasper comments, a gleam in his eye. "Normal people learned how to do things with their _hands_ instead of cheating with the Force."

Clarke uses the Force to send a massive wave of lake water to splash up to his chest. Jasper yelps at the cold.

"I was almost dry!" he complains.

"Now you can stay and help us wash these until you're dry again" Harper teases.

"I better go, actually," Jasper says, glancing up at the sky. "Octavia wants to make a supply run to Niylah today. If we leave soon we should be back by dinnertime."

"You better be, I'm not saving you a seat," Miller says.

"Didn't expect you to," Jasper quips back, stepping up on the shore and wringing lake water out of his boxers. "Clarke, I'm using your Jedi robes as a towel because this is your fault."

Monroe chokes back laughter as Jasper pulls Clarke's robes off of the drying rock and does exactly that.

"Guess I'm here until that dries," Clarke says. She glances down and pulls a uniform out of the crate. Miller climbs off the rock with a long suffering groan and joins them in scrubbing the blood off the uniforms to Harper's satisfaction.

She didn't know that Bellamy could sew. She can add that to a long list of things she didn't know. She knows how he looks when he's fighting back tears, she knows when she can goad him into an argument over mission priorities or when it's time to back off. She knows how much he's willing to sacrifice and what he won't stand to lose. But she didn't know that he could sew. They haven't had the time or peace to learn little things about each other.

Clarke is silent as they wash the scavenged uniforms. The blood disperses quickly into the lake, like whispers lost amid noise. Moments later there's nothing left to find.

She shouldn't have kissed him. It's her fault her mind is clouded; she's the one who said _one kiss_ , like that would be enough, like that would unwind some of the tension that's been building up between them since the assassin on Coruscant. If Master Anya knew how quickly she'd given in to temptation as soon as she was left unsupervised, she wouldn't have been nearly as certain that Clarke was ready to become a Jedi Knight. She scrubs at a uniform hard enough for Monroe to give her a concerned look. She's grateful for the distraction from her thoughts when Miller asks if she wants to come deliver rations to a nearby bunker of civilians who are hiding from Azgeda until the rebellion finds a safer place to smuggle them.

Of course, Clarke is only grateful until they return to camp and find Bellamy waiting by the rover in full gear. The way his eyes widen as she comes into view suggests that he didn't know she was coming on this mission either.

Clarke holds his gaze for a moment before nodding as if to say _we can be natural about this._

 

 

 

 

 

**???**

 

`ESTABLISHING LOCAL CONNECTION FOR USER @Blackbird`

`run $keletonKey.Overview -verbose`

`[WARNING]: Do Not Disrupt Power To System While In Progress.`

`Downloading and decrypting 742936 files........................................... 45% complete`

 

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Bellamy is a grown, mature adult, who has not been avoiding the girl he kissed, because they're in charge together, and the rebellion cannot be allowed to suffer for their stupid choices.

That doesn't mean it's _easy_ to interact with her. Their planning sessions in the war council have been quieter and more awkward than before, with Harper and Monroe and the others looking skeptically at the sudden distance between them. Bellamy struggles to understand the points Clarke makes, while she uses fewer details than usual, and they both hesitate before contradicting each other. He never used to worry about her thinking he's mad at her, before. At first he didn't care, and then, somehow, he trusted her to understand what he was saying underneath the objections.

They should figure that out, and fast, before it impacts their ability to lead the rebellion and someone gets hurt because of them.

So when Miller walks up with Clarke and gives him a significant look, he doesn't object. Bellamy hasn't told Miller that he kissed Clarke - mostly because he wants to punch himself in the face every time he thinks about it - but Miller is clever, and a little evil. He suspects that something happened between them. Bellamy knows he does.

"Are we waiting on anyone else?" Clarke asks. She peers into the back of the rover Bellamy has just finished loading.

"Even if we wanted to," Miller says, following her gaze, "I don't think we could fit another person in there. Can we spare that many supplies, Bellamy?"

"Octavia's bringing another shipment in tonight," Bellamy says. "We'll make it work." He slaps the side of the rover. "Everyone in. Miller, your blaster is fully charged, right?"

"I don't think you need to worry, Bellamy," Clarke says with a small smile. "We're probably the three most competent people in the rebellion, this is totally overkill for a supply run. It's just a day trip."

"A lot can happen in a day," he mumbles, but he can't resist ducking his head and smiling at the ground. It's nice to be joking around again. Maybe this is exactly what they need. He glances over the camp behind them one last time, making sure there's no visible emergency he should tend to, nothing on fire, and at last climbs into the rover.

"How's the arm?" Clarke asks as she climbs into the rover behind him. Bellamy touches his shoulder instinctively, remembering the feeling of her Force-healing, like a shaft of sunlight directly to the bone.

"It feels fine," he says. He can still see her frowning slightly in the rearview mirror so he adds, "You did a good job on it," and waits until she smiles to put his seatbelt on.

He feels light and optimistic for the better part of the drive. It's a good day: warm enough to bake the mud that formed a few days ago after a rainfall, so they won't have to worry about the rover's tracks leading back to camp. Their attacks on Eligius worksites have been going much better since they started coordinating with Zeke and his allies, which eases the pressure on him and Clarke to get their act together. The forest is quiet and peaceful around them, broken only by birdsong and the shrill chatter of insects. Miller starts to hum in the passenger seat, and Bellamy glances at him, ready to make a joke -

"Quiet, stop," Clarke hisses, and a second later they hear the drone of a low-flying engine. Bellamy hits the brakes under the shadows of a pine just as Miller slides the cover back on the roof hatch. The three of them hold their breath as they peer through the hatch as the cruel silhouette of an Azgedan shuttle rumbles over them. It feels like an eternity passes as the ship's shadow darkens their upturned faces before it moves on and they're blinking at a too-bright sky once again. For a handful of heartbeats none of them want to speak.

"They're coming in for a landing, if they're flying that low," Miller says.

"A little too close to the bunker," Bellamy says, finishing the thought. "We'll go scout it out on foot."

"Good thing we brought the three most competent people, right?" Clarke says, her voice sounding hollow. Bellamy presses his lips together and practically kicks the door of the rover to get it open.

"One of Monty's drones would be really fucking nice to have right now," Miller mutters as he pulls out a printed map and scans the upcoming terrain. Their compasses have already started malfunctioning as Eligius' operations destabilize the planet. The differences aren't overwhelming yet, but they've switched to alternate modes of navigation for their missions, since they can't afford to make mistakes.

Miller finds their location and taps his finger against it. Clarke peers over his shoulder, on her tiptoes so she can rest her chin against his shoulder armour for a moment, and murmurs an agreement. Bellamy adjusts his blaster rifle in one arm, and off they go.

The forest no longer feels as welcoming as it did. The birdsong sounds mocking, now, and Bellamy silently curses the insects that flock to the salt gathering on the back of his neck. He slaps one off as it bites him and ducks under a low hanging branch that Clarke is holding up so it won't swing back and hit him. Miller holds out his arm to stop their advance and checks the map twice more.

They aren't fast enough.

The low rumble of the Azgedan ship's engines starts up again just as they're within sight of it. Bellamy crouches low into the bushes, pulling his two companions down on either side of him, and they watch in dismay as the dark metal silhouette rises through the gaps in the trees. It darkens the sky above the treetops for a moment, and then it is gone, growing smaller with every second.

"We would have heard artillery from this close, wouldn't we?" Bellamy asks.

"We should have," Miller agrees. He eyes Bellamy. "There's nothing I can say to stop you from charging in there to investigate, is there?"

"I don't charge in," Bellamy retorts. Clarke reaches out with her hand, her eyebrows furrowed together.

"I don't feel anyone there," she says. Then she hesitates, probably remembering, like Bellamy is, the Sith assassin on Coruscant who hid herself from Clarke's detection somehow.

"I'm going in," Bellamy decides, standing up and hefting his blaster rifle. "We owe it to the civilians. We told them they'd be safe in that bunker."

They cross the remaining distance to the bunker's entrance cautiously, keeping to the safety of the underbrush, though the closer they get the more pointless their careful approach seems. There's no one there. If it weren't for the doorway cut into the bunker's massive metal hatch and the broken foliage in front of it where dozens of feet have trampled the greenery that was helping to hide the entrance, Bellamy might think the bunker long-abandoned.

Clarke ignites her lightsaber and holds the bright blue beam into the hole cut into the hatch. Bellamy and Miller follow her inside, peering into the cavern illuminated by her lightsaber.

Empty.

Bedrolls and rumpled blankets remain where they were left on the floor. A toy truck lies on its side. A ukelele, over there. Bellamy kneels by the nearest bedroll and rests his palm on it. Still warm.

"No bodies," Miller says, echoing what they're all thinking. He stands in the middle of the bunker's common room and turns on his heel, like another scan will reveal the dead he desperately doesn't want to find.

Clarke stands up from a crouch with a small, cylindrical canister in her hand.

"What's that?" Miller asks. Clarke sniffs it and immediately reels back, coughing, her eyes watering and unfocused. She sways dangerously to the side and Bellamy reaches her just in time to catch her as her knees buckle. He slaps the canister out of her hands and hauls her upright, all her weight pressed against the side of his body.

"Clarke, what the hell!"

"M'fine," she says, coughing again. She gets her feet under her and straightens so Bellamy isn't supporting her entire weight now, but she's still leaning heavily into his grip, close enough that he can feel her warmth through the gaps of his body armour.

"What was it?" Miller asks, quickly joining them. He crouches to pick up the canister Bellamy made her drop and holds it a safe distance from his face. "Isn't labeled," he adds, turning it over.

"What were you thinking?" Bellamy asks, resisting the urge to kick it out of Miller's hand.

"No bodies," Clarke says faintly. "Not fatal. Probably a knockout agent of some kind. There's another one over there."

They follow the slightly wavering finger she's pointing to another canister, equally unhelpful in their investigation.

"This place's ventilation can't be too good," Miller says, looking up at the ceiling, and Bellamy's inclined to agree. His head feels like it's spinning too, and it's not just the shock and confusion of the empty bunker.

"Let's not linger," he suggests, and they exit the hole in the doorway. Outside in the forest the air is sharper, cleaner, the shock of it making Bellamy feel like he's stepped into a cold bath. Clarke stops leaning against him. Bellamy tells himself this is good news.

"Why would they take the Arkadians?" Clarke asks, the question they're all wondering.

"I don't know," Bellamy says, feeling exhausted by this new development. "But I don't want to stay in case they come back."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**???**

 

`ESTABLISHING LOCAL CONNECTION FOR USER @Blackbird`

`run $keletonKey.Overview -verbose`

`[WARNING]: Do Not Disrupt Power To System While In Progress.`

`Downloading and decrypting 742936 files........................................... 78% complete`

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

  

Monty is back just before dinner, like he said he would be. Miller watches the _Skyripper_ land a short distance from the camp and looks down at the bundle of firewood he's chopping for the cooking fires. A significant part of him wants to abandon the work and run straight to Monty, find some quiet corner and tell him about the bunker they were too late to save, about the silence that came from the abrupt absence of people. It doesn't make any sense.

He stays in place, raising the axe over his head and letting its weight lead its trajectory down again and again. The muscles of his arms and shoulders start to burn with the strain. The pile of firewood next to him grows larger than the camp will realistically need for the night, and still Miller does not stop chopping except to pull the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face and neck.

"That's a great view," a voice says approvingly. Miller drops his shirt to cover up his stomach and locks eyes with Monty. He's spent the last few hours since they left the bunker desperate to talk to Monty, to get the confusing tangle of thoughts in his head out into the open where maybe the two of them can find some sense in them. And now Monty is _here_ , in front of him, and Miller doesn't know where to start.

Something of it must show on his face, because Monty's smile drops.

"Shit, sorry," he says. "Guess it's not a good time to hit on you, huh? What happened?"

"Have you talked to Bellamy or Clarke yet?" Miller asks. If one of them has already mentioned the bunker then he doesn't want to bore Monty with repeating it.

"No, I came straight to you," Monty says, and Miller tries not to feed the tiny flame of delight that warms his chest at that. He's not used to being someone's first thought, the first person they want to go to. The nature of Monty's piracy and the long stints of time they'd sometimes go between visits means that their relationship went slowly, and some things Miller's never stopped being pleasantly surprised by. "Well, first I helped unload the supplies, and then I tried to give Jasper a noogie and accidentally punched one of his horns, so I went looking for Clarke, but I didn't find her."

Good enough. Miller shakes his head and reaches out.

"Your hand?" he asks.

"It's barely a scratch," Monty promises, stepping forward and holding it up. Miller takes his hand and examines the small tear across his knuckles in the dying light of the day. Monty's right, he'll be fine, he doesn't really need Clarke to look at it. Miller raises their joined hands and presses his lips to the back of Monty's hand. "Nate?" Monty asks. "What happened?"

So Miller tells him about the bunker. Monty listens with an increasingly worried face.

"This is about your dad, isn't it?" he asks at long last. Miller hangs his head.

"He's not dead," Miller says. He curls his fingers over his chest. "I think I'd be able to feel it. I know that sounds dumb for someone who's not Force-sensitive, but. He's all the family I have left, I would _know_."

Monty steps forward and hugs him, sweat-drenched and all. Miller leans into his warmth immediately, his eyes fluttering shut on their own. He takes deep breaths until Monty pulls back.

"I hope you're right," Monty says.

"I'm scared," Miller says, barely above a whisper. "How do you... how do you keep smiling?"

"Nate," Monty says, a note of exasperation in his voice as he reaches up and pulls on a lock of hair. "I'm fucking _terrified_. I spent the whole trip back to Arkadia wondering if this will be the time Azgeda's blockade catches us and we all die trying to win an unwinnable war - "

"It's not over - " Miller interrupts.

Monty presses his lips together and gives Miller a humorless look.

"Are you ever going to look at our situation and say it's over?" Monty asks. Miller's never heard him speak so seriously before.

"We're still alive," he says stubbornly, and Monty flinches.

"That's a really low measure of success," he responds. "What, are you going to keep fighting until the second before someone fires a blaster into your skull? What if we know we can't win, Nate? When do you draw the line? When do you say, this is as much as I'm willing to sacrifice? When do you walk away?"

"I don't," Miller says shortly. "I'll follow Bellamy into hell if I have to."

Monty's eyes water and it takes every fiber of Miller's resolve not to look away. He _hates_ looking at the man he loves and knowing his pain is his fault, but looking away is an insult he won't make Monty endure.

"I won't," Monty says after a long, sharp silence, and Miller's face crumples. "If Azgeda takes everyone else away and destroys this planet, if we're the last Arkadians left, then I think we owe it to everyone who came before us and everyone who died to stay alive and start over someplace new. I won't die here. I will draw a line, and I won't follow you past it."

"I don't want you to," Miller shoots back without thinking. When Monty flinches, he realizes what it sounds like and claps his hand over his face. He takes a deep breath and struggles to search for the right words. Miller has always been very good at remembering other people's words, and not so good with coming up with his own. He feels raw, exposed - but maybe that's what Monty deserves. Maybe that's what love is. Opening yourself up and hoping the other person understands and treats you gently. He exhales roughly and brings his hand down, finding Monty's narrowed, hurting eyes on his face. "You deserve - good grief, Monty, you deserve better than this," Miller says tiredly. "You deserve peace and happiness. If it gets bad - promise me - if it starts looking like the end, get out of here."

Monty's double-take makes it clear that's not where he expected Miller to go with this conversation. Another heartbeat or two, as Miller winces at the silence, and Monty's face softens. 

"Don't you think you deserve to be happy too?" Monty asks softly. He looks so sad. There's some anger under there still, anger that Miller doesn't see it, doesn't want the same things for himself.

"I do," Miller says, carefully. He spreads his arms wide and gestures at the trees around them, the forest that will wake up and glow in just an hour, the forest that is hiding them from Azgeda and keeping them safe. "But - I'd never find peace if I walked away from this."

It's not just the forest. It's not just that Arkadia is _their_ planet. It's a people, too. Miller wants to put his gun down. He wants to be sure that Bellamy won't run head-first into another danger, that Miller can stop watching over both their shoulders for the worst in people. Miller wants - he's afraid it'll sound silly, if he says it out loud, but he wants a farm. He doesn't know if he has Monty's green thumb but he's sure he could still be useful around a farm. There could be chickens. Miller pictures something quiet, where only the people he likes know his address, where if they want to visit they'll have to trek through a whole garden - something lawless, not like Wells' palace gardens, though he thinks those are beautiful too in a different way. Miller wants to make something good. But if he leaves the rebellion to do that, it won't be enough. He'll always wonder, if he'd stayed longer, if he'd done more, if ten or twenty or a thousand more people could find peace too. Miller wants them to be happy too.

Monty shakes his head.

"Miller, I love you, but I don't understand."

"I know," Miller says, his heart falling, because he gets it. He gets where Monty is coming from, just as he understands why he can't follow, just as he blames himself for not being able to articulate why he needs to stay. He steps forward, hesitantly reaching one hand out to Monty, and Monty takes it without hesitation. Miller squeezes his fingers. "I love you too," he says lowly. _So I hope I never have to choose._

 

 

 

 

 

**???**

 

`ESTABLISHING LOCAL CONNECTION FOR USER @Blackbird`

`run $keletonKey.Overview -verbose`

`[WARNING]: Do Not Disrupt Power To System While In Progress.`

`Downloading and decrypting 742936 files........................................... 100% complete`

 

 

 

 

 

**THE SENATE, CORUSCANT**

 

A Baragwin delegate drones on and on about trade tariffs while Kane toys with his cup of caffeine and tries to look attentive.

The negotiation is boring not by its nature – Kane studied economics, before he drifted sideways into interplanetary politics, so his attention span is more suited to a discussion on tariffs than most people – but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to pay attention to the banalities of day-to-day life in the Senate when his gut is constantly telling him he could be doing more elsewhere.  _Should_  be doing more elsewhere.

One of the other delegates coughs. Kane sits back in his chair to disguise his startle at the sudden sound and occupies himself with the settings on his datapad instead. A half-empty note sits on his screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at him where he stopped taking notes halfway through a sentence. His leg starts bouncing of its own accord.

It’s impossible to get anything done with –

The cursor moves by itself to the next line. Kane stops bouncing his leg instantly.

MARCUS KANE?

He stares dumbly at the letters that have appeared in his document of their own accord, typed by ghostly fingers. The cursor blinks impatiently.

ARE YOU THERE? the ghost in his datapad asks. DUDE, SERIOUSLY, YOUR SECURITY PROTOCOLS WERE NUTS, TELL ME I DIDN’T SLICE INTO YOUR DATAPAD FOR NOTHING.

Kane looks around at the other delegates in the room but no one is paying him much attention. He eyes the Baragwin going through the agenda for a moment and then pulls his datapad into his lap, angling the screen so it’s a little more difficult for anyone else at the discussion to see.

 _Yes_ , he types.  _I’m here._

LIT, the ghost says. Kane’s mind races. What does that mean? Something about fire? Could it be a hint that his datapad has been infiltrated by a pyromaniac group? The Zabraks come from a lava planet – but no, they’re largely indifferent to galaxy-wide politics, it’s unlikely. Maybe it has nothing to do with fire, maybe it’s about light. Could it be a hint that his ghost is telling him they’re aligned with the Jedi?

He minimizes the document for a moment and opens up a Holonet window to search for a cultural significance to the word  _‘lit’_. Before he can scroll through the first results, the document forcibly opens up over it.

IT’S NOT THAT DEEP, the ghost says. IT JUST MEANS I’M PLEASED TO HAVE YOUR ATTENTION.

Kane exhales forcefully, getting a raised eyebrow from the delegate on his right. On the line underneath the ghost’s last message, he types  _There are better ways to contact the Mandalorian government. Better, legal ways._

In another window, he opens up a direct message to Mandalore’s head of security, Admiral Sinclair.  _We have a security breach_ , he types.  _I seem to have a ghost on my personal datapad._

The document pops up over it before he can hit send.

NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO TELL YOU THAT I HAVE YOUR SCREEN MIRRORED, the ghost says. Kane minimizes the document to open up another Holonet search. He gets halfway through the word ‘mirrored’ before the document pops up again. THAT MEANS I CAN SEE EVERYTHING ON YOUR SCREEN. INCLUDING YOUR OTHER WINDOWS. SERIOUSLY, HEAR ME OUT. IT’S ABOUT ARKADIA.

This gives Kane pause. He tentatively hits enter and begins to type.

_Are you a friend or foe?_

FRIEND, the ghost says. CLARKE CAN VOUCH FOR ME. BELLAMY CRASHED ON MY COUCH SO I THINK WE’RE FRIENDS NOW TOO. The ghost types and then quickly deletes another sentence: ACTUALLY HE SLEPT ON MY BED, MILLER CALLED DIBS ON THE COUCH. As Kane watches, dumbfounded, the ghost tries to elaborate: I WASN’T IN THE BED, BY THE WAY. UGH, NEVERMIND, and then everything but ‘CLARKE CAN VOUCH FOR ME’ is deleted.

“I don’t know what to do with this information,” Kane murmurs to himself, wondering at the absurd turn the day has taken.

“Something to add, Senator?” the Baragwin at the front of the room asks. Kane smiles pleasantly at him.

“No, thank you, just appreciating the discussion,” he says quickly, and keeps smiling until the attention moves off of him and he can look back down at his screen.

KANE. KANE. ARE YOU STILL THERE? ACCEPT THIS DOWNLOAD. KANE.

Another window pops up, asking him if he wants to accept a file transfer from an unidentified, untraceable source.

As he hovers over the accept button, hesitating, the ghost continues.

KANE, YOU NEED TO ACCEPT THIS DOWNLOAD. YOU REALLY, REALLY NEED TO SEE THESE FILES. IF YOU DON’T, I WILL GET THEM ON YOUR DATAPAD ANYWAY, BUT IT’LL TAKE ME AN EXTRA HALF HOUR OF EFFORT AND IT SEEMED POLITER TO LET YOU FEEL LIKE YOU HAVE AGENCY IN THIS. PLEASE ACCEPT THE FUCKING DOWNLOAD ALREADY.

He clicks accept. A green loading bar starts to inch across his screen and Kane’s eyes widen when he sees the size of the file transfer.

 _Who are you??_  he types. The cursor blinks without an answer as the loading bar reaches its end. The icon of a black bird taking flight flashes across his screen as he opens the first file. It’s a standard-looking work contract with the Eligius Mining Federation. He clicks through the first ten or so files: they’re all more work contracts, nothing out of the ordinary with them at first glance.

He returns to the document.

 _Are you still there?_  he asks the ghost.  _Why all the secrecy for a bunch of work contracts?_  He holds his breath until the cursor moves by itself.

DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE? CHECK THE BLUEPRINTS DIRECTORY.

He navigates to that folder and opens the first file. It takes him a moment to decipher the tiny, squiggly white lines on a dark blue background. It looks like a starship, a destroyer class if he had to guess, but Kane’s a politician, not an engineer. These plans don’t mean much to him.

 _Congrats, that’s a starship. I still don’t understand what you want,_  he types.  _Eligius does contracts for practically every system. Even Mandalore has hired them a few times._

NOT ON THIS SCALE, BUDDY. AZGEDA HIRED ALL OF ELIGIUS. ALL OF IT. The cursor blinks for another few seconds as Kane tries to process this, before continuing. OKAY, MAYBE I STARTED WITH THE WRONG DOCUMENT. LOOK AT THIS ONE.

The ghost opens up a record of hundreds and hundreds of transactions with the Banking Clan, bounced around dozens of throwaway accounts. Kane’s jaw drops and he stands up very abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the Baragwin delegation, who all look very affronted at his interruption. “Something has come up, I have to go immediately.”

He’s out the door before any of them can put together a coherent objection. As he runs down the hallway, the ghost keeps typing.

FOLLOW THE MONEY TRAIL, SENATOR. AM I SPEAKING YOUR LANGUAGE YET?

Kane ducks into the restroom and locks himself into the far stall after checking underneath the doors for feet. The restroom is empty. His own ragged breathing echoes in the silence as he leans back against the wall and scrolls down the record. Hundreds and  _hundreds_  of transactions moving around absurd amounts of credits.

 _????_  he types to the ghost.  _How did you find this?_

HACKED AZGEDA’S SERVERS. THOSE ALL EVENTUALLY LEAD BACK TO AZGEDA’S ROYAL FAMILY. The ghost opens up the blueprints he was looking at earlier and sets it alongside the document they’re typing back and forth to each other on. I REPAIR STARSHIPS FOR A LIVING. I CAN TRANSLATE THIS. AZGEDA IS BUILDING A SUPERWEAPON, AND IT NEEDS THE FUEL UNDERNEATH ARKADIA TO POWER IT.

Kane’s hands are shaking on his datapad, his knuckles gone bone-white.

DO YOU BELIEVE ME? the ghost asks.

 _Yes_ , he types back with trembling hands. The cursor blinks and blinks and blinks as his mind spirals.  

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

The sky over Arkadia that evening is dotted with clouds, big fluffy ones, almost cartoonish, like the kind Octavia used to draw when they were little and she'd only seen glimpses of them through the cracks in shutters Aurora always kept shut. They're thunderclouds, brewing for a downpour, but Bellamy's been keeping an eye on them and thinks the storm will pass over them and drop only on the other side of the mountains. Their tops are dark and swollen, blue-black, like a bruise, the line of their belly glowing gold with the sun, everything between pink and purple. 

But Bellamy is not up here to enjoy the view.

He sits cross-legged at the top of the rocky outcropping that shelters the rebel camp from wind and spies. The forest is at his back, growing cooler and darker by the minute as the sun creeps lower in the sky. The camp is spread out beyond the rock's edge, his rebels seeming small and distant from this angle, their conversations inaudible as they clean gear and prepare dinner rations and regroup for the night. Bellamy focuses instead on the holographic map in front of him, projected by a rusty C-series astromech that they 'liberated' from an Azgedan ground troop a few weeks ago. Monroe's squadron of starfighters pulses a ghostly blue, set against a backdrop of forest and craters. Bellamy chews on the corner of one nail as the cluster of five dots nears their mission objective. 

"Do you have a visual on the walkers yet?" he asks. 

The line crackles with static. 

"I don't," Monroe says shortly. "Like I didn't the last three times you asked."

"Point taken, Lieutenant," Bellamy says, and he forces a smile even though their current communication is only audio. He tells himself it's just the unease of the trip to the bunker earlier that's making him worry over a mission that Monroe is more than qualified to lead. "I believe you can do it."

"I know," Monroe says, just as dry. 

One of the other pilots mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _mother hen_ , though it's lost amid static and the subsequent giggling.

"I see them," Fox says suddenly. "2 o'clock. I count three."

"Zeke said there'd be four," Bellamy says immediately. 

"Climb another thousand feet," Monroe says. "We'll do another sweep from afar. Fox, run a scan."

Bellamy narrows his eyes and bites on his fingertip hard enough to make himself wince while he waits for Monroe's squadron to complete another fly-by. The astromech whistles lowly and rocks slightly on its stabilizers, jarring the map projected over the rock in front of Bellamy. He reaches out and lays a comforting hand on its chassis. 

"Easy, C1," he says. "Monroe knows what she's doing."

Movement from the corner of Bellamy's eye makes his hand fly to his thigh-holster, but a second later he realizes it's only Clarke. Her eyes track his reaction as she jumps the last gap between two rocks, the Force making her seem weightless.

"Not fast enough," she says to him. "I could have killed you before you had your safety off."

"Good thing we're getting along these days," Bellamy says dryly, and shifts to make room for her to sit. She comes to a stop near him but keeps standing, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed as she sweeps an eye over the forest at his back. Bellamy returns his focus to the map. 

"Found the fourth walker," Monroe says. "Bellamy, it's been redeployed to a nearby Eligius site, it's guarding the crater. Looks like they just had a rockslide, the walker's on unsteady ground. We could attach tethers to it and drag it into the mine shaft, slow down that operation by a few days."

"Careful, Monroe," Bellamy says with a frown. "What colour are the uniforms around it? Are they Azgeda or Eligius?"

"Both," Fox says. "40-60 split, mostly Eligius."

"Back off before they see you," Bellamy says. "Stick to the mission and take out the first three you found."

"This set-up is _perfect_ ," Monroe argues. "And the mission was to destroy _four_ walkers."

"We can't risk killing Eligius allies and losing their intel," Clarke says, reaching the same conclusion that Bellamy had. Monroe makes a frustrated sound over the comms and Bellamy's hands curl into anxious fists, worried she'll disobey, worried she'll cost them support they can't afford to lose. 

"I just hate seeing what they're doing to our planet," Monroe says, her voice quiet and hurting. 

"I know," Bellamy says. 

"I don't know if you know," Monroe shoots back. "You should see the scale of destruction from the air. It's bad, sir."

"Finish the mission and come back to base, Monroe," Clarke leans over and says. "We'll take a look at that opportunity tonight, maybe we can coordinate with Zeke and hit it in the morning."

"All right," she replies. "Blue Squadron, circle around, we're going back to the first three hostiles."

Bellamy relaxes. Clarke inches a half-step closer, and a moment later he feels a hand in his hair, soft and hesitant. He leans into it, closing his eyes at the gentle touch before reminding him he still has to pay attention to the map. But Clarke doesn't stop stroking his hair, and it soothes him as they watch Monroe's mission play out. Neither of them say much as Monroe's squadron blows up the three Azgedan walkers and their pulsing blue dots angle their way home.

"See you at dinner, Blue Squadron," Bellamy says. "C1, close the line."

The astromech whistles brightly at him and terminates the projection. Bellamy still sees the ghostly glowing outline of it imprinted on his vision until he blinks it away and looks up at the sky. The golden colour of sunset is gone now, the sun skimming the mountainous horizon, the thunderclouds painted a red so rich it looks like blood. They missed the beautiful part while they were playing at war.

"Are we doing the right thing?" Bellamy asks her. 

"I hope so," Clarke says. They're both silent for a time that seems longer than it probably is. "You're too exposed up here," Clarke says at long last. "Someone dedicated could snipe you."

Bellamy shrugs and Clarke's fingers tighten in his hair, almost painfully.

"Your safety is not a joke," she says stiffly.

"I'm not as essential as the rebellion thinks I am," Bellamy says dismissively. "You'd continue the work without me."

"I would," Clarke says instantly. _For Wells_ , Bellamy thinks. _For our people_. "But you're not disposable," Clarke says firmly. She crouches down next to him, her eyes like steel, squinting against the lingering sunset. "Not to me, and not to the rebellion. That's not even an option."

Bellamy's traitorous heart hammers in his ribcage. Clarke's hand is braced against the rocks only a few centimeters away from his. Resisting the urge to brush against his fingers is almost painful.

"So we're still partners, huh?" he asks, trying not to betray in his voice how much it matters. "Even with...?"

"Bellamy," Clarke says, half-exasperated, half-affectionate. "For one of the most intelligent people I know, sometimes, you are very stupid. Can we _please_ climb off this rock so I can stop being nervous about you?"

"As the princess commands," Bellamy says, with a jerky half-salute as he clambers to his feet. His legs are stiff after sitting for so long. He stretches them out and smiles as Clarke rolls her eyes. 

" _Not_ a princess," she says, and tugs his arm towards the camp.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed the chapter count has been officially bumped up to 17! This is because I couldn't say goodbye to this au yet.
> 
> The code portions are, again, deeply inaccurate for readability reasons.
> 
> It's canon that someone was playing space-Wonderwall on the ukulele in the bunker just before Bellarke and Miller got there.
> 
> If you're sensitive to weird 80s practical effects that look like gore, careful with the next link. [Baragwins](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Baragwin/Legends) were the first google result for "star wars species with a good sense of smell" but then I changed the scene and it ended up not being relevant. This is good trivia to keep in your back pocket in case a nerd fanboy ever tries to gatekeep you out of SW. Gatekeep them back with the dumb research I did at 3am. 
> 
> [The Banking Clan](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/InterGalactic_Banking_Clan) is Star War's pretty shoddy attempt at explaining the economics of their verse, not the most boring Grounder clan to ever inaccurately populate post-apocalyptic North America. In George Lucas' defence I am also handwaving all the economics and politics bc I don't know shit and, again, I am here for the Drama and I only care about realism when it suits me. 
> 
> The rebellion's military ranks used to be loosely based on Canadian army/navy ranks BUT things like "Brigadier-General" are... a mouthful. I'm trying to aim for a rebellion atmosphere while highlighting that ultimately these kids are friends, so I'll be switching to shorter, snappier titles so they stand out less in dialogue and make the interactions feel more casual. Technically this will make everyone very low rank, but um, whatevs. Adjusted rebellion hierarchy coming soon.
> 
> You guys have been absolutely incredible, thanks for continuing to read and for so many of you sharing the tumblr post from last chapter. <3 :) *jazz hands my way offstage*


	9. the need/love dichotomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** Discussion of classic Star Wars-style amputation. Also, entirely unrelated, sex. No plot happens during it so it is safe to skim/skip as needed. You will know when it's about to begin. It's not very explicit, but it is more explicit than what I usually write so keep that in mind and prioritize your comfort. :)

 

**ARKADIA**

 

It's a clear, cool morning as Clarke supervises the supplies being loaded into the rover that will accompany them to another scouting trip through Coronet City. She's barely slept the past few nights, back in her old bedroom, staring awake at the ceiling and trying not to think about what a disappointment she is to the Jedi Order, but the breeze bringing fresh air and the scent of Jasper's pancakes lifts her mood and distracts her from the everpresent memory of Bellamy's lips on hers.

She turns her face up to the sky after slamming the rover's trunk shut, basking in the faint morning sunshine, and she's the first one to notice the familiar starship soaring overhead. 

Clarke's senses all sharpen as she reaches out with the Force, eager and curious to make contact with its occupants. Alarmed cries rise up in the rebel camp as others notice it, but Clarke raises her hand to calm them down. 

"It's all right!" she calls out before the panic can spread. "It's a Jedi shuttle!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Blake siblings standing on the edge of camp, their faces looking stony. Bellamy turns to Octavia and says something in her ear, and for once his sister doesn't immediately look mutinous. They're too far away and quiet for Clarke to hear, but she can guess what he suggested when Octavia nods curtly and turns on her heel, vanishing into the forest.

Clarke drags her attention away from them and reaches out with the Force, the equivalent of jumping up and down and waving her hands at the shuttle. They meet her halfway, already searching for her, and Clarke pulls back as a familiar mind brushes against hers. Bellamy parks himself next to her, arms crossed defiantly, as the Jedi shuttle pulls off a tight turn and lands neatly in a clearing near their camp. 

"Finally, reinforcements!" Clarke says with an exasperated laugh, tugging on Bellamy's arm. "It took them long enough to make up their minds."

"Get it?" she hears Jasper say loudly to Monty in the background. "Rein-Force-ments? Because they're Jedi?"

Bellamy does not look nearly as thrilled as she feels. Clarke shakes her head with a smile and climbs up out of the camp's hollow to meet the new arrivals. She's a little embarrassed to be caught wearing the scruffy fatigues she's borrowed from Monroe instead of her dirty Jedi tunic, but she has her brown robes warming her shoulders, and the lightsaber that hangs permanently on her belt is neatly polished. She drags a hand through her hair quickly, hoping to smooth out some tangles, and wishes she'd been diligent enough to fix her braid this morning, and - oh, she should have kept some kind of log, had reports ready for the newcomers - 

But there's only one figure emerging from the trees. A familiar figure, but by herself.

"Reinforcements, huh?" Bellamy mutters quietly. 

"I'm sure there will be more," Clarke says quickly, though her own heart falls when no one else follows. She swallows hard.

"Senator Blake," Clarke says, with deliberate politeness as the new arrival reaches them. "This is Jedi Knight Lexa, a friend of mine."

"Charmed," Bellamy says, sounding anything but. Lexa barely looks at him as they shake hands. 

"I'm a Master now, actually," Lexa says to Clarke, as casually as she'd comment on the weather, and Clarke goes cold all over. "Jedi Master Lexa. I've just been appointed to the High Council."

"Because there was an empty spot," Clarke says flatly. Lexa presses her lips together into a thin, displeased line. She probably wanted congratulations more than she wanted to deal with the stunned hurt on Clarke's face.

"Something wrong, Clarke?" Bellamy says, taking a half-step forward as if to get between her and Lexa. 

"Lexa got promoted because the Council doesn't think Anya is coming back," Clarke says through clenched teeth. Bellamy's dark gaze flickers to Lexa.

"The Council doesn't want to make a hasty decision - " Lexa says diplomatically. 

"The Council doesn't want to make any decisions!" Clarke interrupts with a snarl. "It's hardly hasty if we've been here fighting for our lives and for Arkadia's freedom for _weeks_ already!"

"That ends now, Clarke," Lexa says, a hint of frustration entering her cool, clipped voice. "You've been ordered to return to Coruscant with me to give your report on the situation."

"Like you'll let me come back afterwards," Clarke snarls. "Can you believe I got excited when I saw your ship? I really thought for a minute that we were going to get help. Fuck it. Fuck you. I'm not going to abandon this rebellion."

"Clarke," Lexa says, her green eyes flashing with annoyance.

"You were her Padawan too, you should understand - "

"And you're _still_ only a Padawan, you don't have a say in this - "

"I have plenty to say - " Clarke retorts, and she breaks off with a choked sob. Bellamy lays a hand on her back, in between her shoulderblades, a warm and heavy reminder of what she's fighting for and who's been with her all along. 

"In the interest of avoiding a diplomatic conflict," Bellamy says, in a deceptively calm voice that fails to hide the dangerous glint in his eyes, "I think you should leave Arkadia immediately."

Lexa turns her head to look at him slowly, stiffly. When she's finally turned, Clarke thinks she seems surprised Bellamy is still staring her down with that same burning, righteous fury instead of backing down. She considers him for a moment, and then Clarke sees her make a decision, the wrong decision - she opens her mouth to protest as Lexa takes a half step forward, her palm raising up, her mouth forming a vague, pleasant smile.

"You _will_ walk away from this conversation," Lexa says, imbuing her words with the Force as she waves a hand in front of Bellamy's face. It's not a voice to disobey.

"You shouldn't have done that," Clarke whispers.

"Get off my planet," Bellamy says, all trace of civility gone. Lexa takes a step back, her green eyes wide with shock as the suggestion fails to take root in Bellamy's mind. It's not a look Clarke's seen on her fellow Jedi before, but the pain of Lexa's betrayal is still burning and seeing her lost for words is the best balm she could ask for right now. In the Force Bellamy is the unfurling storm he was when Clarke first tried to touch his mind - she's not reaching for him now, but she feels it all the same, the undulating, barely-restrained winds of his emotions lashing out, and she knows Lexa can feel it too. 

Lexa's eyes flicker back to Clarke's.

"Clarke - " she says.

"I don't want you here," Clarke says, quietly mourning the sunny afternoons she spent as a very young child watching Lexa and the other Padawans practicing katas, and the feeling Clarke had when Anya picked her, like she was part of a family, a legacy, the bud on a branch she could trace down into the dirt. She presses her palm to her sternum, trying to cover up what feels like a yawning hole, begun when Anya was captured and torn open again with Lexa's promotion. "Bellamy's right. You need to go. I'm staying here. I belong with Arkadia."

And the chapter could end there. Lexa could walk away, and Clarke could let her, and they could try to patch things up after the war - 

But instead Lexa only takes a few steps into the trees, and she pauses in front of her T-6 shuttle and looks back over her shoulder. 

"You're being weak, Clarke," Lexa calls out, and something in Clarke shatters. "Your emotions will destroy you."

The ground rumbles as Clarke drops into a low stance. The pebbles rise up into the air first - small and gray, unextraordinary except for their numbers, and then larger stones, worn smooth by rain, like the ones Jasper was teaching her to skip without the Force a few days ago, and then entire fist-sized chunks of muddy rock scraping against each other as they're torn from the earth. And all of them hover around Clarke, pin-pricks in the Force. Bellamy is half-crouched at her side, giving her a wary look as dirt tumbles from the rocks' edges.

" _Leave_ ," Clarke snarls, holding the earth up as a threat, and Lexa retreats into her shuttle with the first hint of urgency she's shown so far. 

"Clarke, are you all right?" Bellamy asks, his voice gentle and careful, the one he uses to soothe scared children when Azgedan ships are on patrol over their heads, and she's _not_ all right - 

The engines of Lexa's T-6 shuttle flare to life. Clarke's stones and pebbles rain down upon it as it hovers at the treetops, and she screams like it could tear the voice out of her lungs for the rest of her life. 

"She was your Master too!"

Her knees give out and Clarke digs her fingers into soil, grasping, searching for something solid, something she hasn't already torn out with the Force. She lurches back to her feet with nothing but soil and throws that at Lexa's retreating jet-trail anyway and when the shuttle vanishes completely into the sky and there's no more air left in Clarke's lungs, she collapses and lets herself sob. Bellamy is there instantly, his chest warm and solid as he sits in the upturned dirt with her and pulls her into his arms. She turns her face into his worn, scratchy tunic - such a far cry from the Senate robes he made his speeches in - and doesn't care that she's whimpering like a little girl again. She hasn't cried so hard since her father was killed and Abby sent her away without a goodbye.

"It's not fair," Bellamy says, his voice ragged, and Clarke curls her dirty fists into the back of his tunic and just nods into his chest as her lungs constrict with uncontrollable sobs. "It's not fair," he whispers again, softer, and presses his face against the crown of her head. 

They're still sitting there when Octavia returns, her sword drawn, her eyes dark and piercing as they flit around the clearing, finding the holes Clarke's left all around her.

"Was that you?" Octavia asks, jutting her chin out at Clarke. Dully, she realizes the younger Blake is probably referring to the shockwave Clarke must have sent into the Force with her anger. Octavia kicks at the hollow of a large rock with an... envious expression? "Damn. Wish I could have seen it. So the Jedi fucked off? Good riddance."

Clarke waits for the usual annoyance to bubble up in her, the urge to defend the Order that raised her. It doesn't. She exhales and reluctantly sits up straighter, wiping the tear tracks on her face with the cleanest parts of her sleeves. 

"You got dirt there," Bellamy says, brushing some that's gotten underneath her eye, and Octavia tracks every motion with an unreadable look. Clarke sighs again. 

"No Jedi reinforcements," she says flatly. "Just us."

"Come on," Bellamy says. "Let's do something else, get your mind off of it. Let's blow up a tank." 

Something vicious and hurt inside of Clarke raises its head. 

"Yes," she says. " _Let's._ "

She stews in the quiet, simmering anger left behind by Lexa's indifference all the way to Coronet City's outskirts. 

Bellamy is driving and she feels him looking over at her, but she keeps staring out of the window. Something creeps down her spine, like a finger lightly dragged along it, and she sits up in her seat and looks behind her. Harper and the handful of other rebels sitting in the back look at her quizzically. 

"Nothing," Clarke says, though none of them have asked out loud. She slumps back and tries to focus. Something feels...

"We're here," Harper says, nudging her shoulder and then following her squad out the back of the rover. Clarke opens her eyes and looks at the electrical fence just visible between the trees. She scrambles out of the rover as two of Harper's rebels unload their blasters and double-check their armour. 

"Wait," Clarke says, and all eyes go to her. 

"Someone approaching?" Bellamy asks, his eyes already peering at the watchtowers that line the fence. 

"No," Clarke murmurs. "No, we're clear. Do you still want to scavenge the depot?"

"Do you not want to?" Harper asks, her eyebrows drawing together in disappointment. 

"You can," Clarke says. Something is pulling her deeper into the city. "I'm going to scout the palace again."

"Again?" one of the rebels asks. 

"Clarke," Bellamy says. "We've tried everything. We can't get past that energy shield."

"I know."

"Do you have an idea?" he presses. "A new strategy?"

Clarke hesitates, and Harper rubs her face in frustration. 

"Guys, I'm sorry," she says, glancing anxiously at the watchtowers visible through the trees. "But we can't stay here making a decision forever. There will be a patrol soon."

"You go to the depot, as planned," Clarke says. "You don't need me for that. Get in, get out with the supplies. If I'm not back at the rover by the time you return, keep going, I'll find another way home."

"I don't like this plan," Harper says. 

"You're not going to the palace alone," Bellamy says, having apparently already figured out that Clarke's not budging on her destination. 

"Yes I am."

"Both the leaders of our rebellion going alone on an unplanned, unorganized mission is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Harper says. "If you get caught..."

"I won't get caught," Clarke insists. "I'll stay out of danger."

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm letting you go alone. If it's not dangerous, there's no reason why I can't come," Bellamy argues. Clarke shoves at his shoulder, frustrated with the angle he's taking on this argument. 

"Ugh, fine," Clarke hisses at him. 

"Seriously, you're going in?" Harper asks. "On a whim?"

"It's the Force," Clarke says, and she hopes she sounds more confident than she feels. Harper throws her hands up with a sigh, and then adjusts the bandanna around her forehead and puts her business face on. 

"Fine," she agrees. "The rest of my squadron will raid the depot as planned. We'll send one of Monty's droids to watch the treeline, in case you don't make it back on time and you need a pickup."

"Thanks," Clarke says, giving her a quick side-hug to make up for forcing her to improvise her raid. They crawl through the underbrush closer to the fence and wait for the next Azgedan patrol to go past. Clarke closes her eyes, and focuses on the guards in the watchtowers, finds their minds in the brilliant tangle of the Force, and gently tugs to make them look elsewhere. Then Bellamy and Harper keep watch through the scopes of their blasters as the rebel group darts up to the fence and Clarke cuts a hole large enough for them to slip through with her lightsaber. 

They part halfway to the depot after ducking into the shadows of an alley to avoid another patrol. 

"I hope you're sure about this," Harper says quietly, squeezing Clarke's hand, and then she follows the rest of her squadron further down the alley. 

"Where are we going?" Bellamy asks, as he follows Clarke down a path through the city that slowly spirals into the center where the impenetrable palace lays. 

"I'm going to meditate," Clarke says, shutting off her lightsaber and crawling into the overhang left by a windowsill flowerpot whose vegetation has long since gone yellow and wilted under Azgeda's occupation. 

Bellamy bites his lip and looks both ways down the narrow pathway they've sequestered themselves along. 

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"It helps if you're quiet," Clarke hisses at him, trying to concentrate on the dying plants over her head. "I thought I felt something."

He quiets, crouching at her side with his blaster in his lap and falling into silence as he watches over her body. Clarke closes her eyes and exhales. She reaches out, and the Force meets her. It feels sluggish, tired, but happy to see her, like an old friend long-parted. Clarke takes a deep breath, and reaches out beyond the plant. She skips over the minds of Azgedan soldiers she encounters, feeling hard, smooth planes, like broken mirrors pieced together into new, jagged shapes. Something stirs, something familiar.

Leaves tickle her cheek. 

Clarke opens her eyes, and she's standing in the palace gardens of her youth. It's not a memory. Wells is pulling weeds, and his face is the face she saw just a few months ago, if slightly more unshaven and tired. Clarke's knees feel weak, but she forces herself across the garden to him.

"Wells!" she calls out, nearly tripping in her haste. "Wells, Wells!"

But he doesn't look up, not when she calls out, not when she falls to her knees in front of him, not when she reaches out and her hand goes right through his shoulder. Clarke's voice chokes in her throat as he keeps methodically pulling weeds, his practiced fingers gathering the leaves into one bunch and carefully tearing out the intact roots. She pulls her hand back, and it's ghost-like as it passes through his body with no resistance. 

"Clarke!"

Her head snaps up at Anya's voice. So does Wells'.

"Where?" he asks, sitting on his heels and looking up at the garden walls. Clarke follows his gaze and is sickened to see Azgedan soldiers patrolling its height underneath the purple haze of the stupid energy shield she hasn't been able to penetrate. 

"Go back to weeding!" Anya hisses as she sits down beside them. "She's not here, it's a Force vision."

"You can see me?" Clarke asks. Her voice trembles as she reaches out for her Master. 

"Clarke, I'm right here," Bellamy says. She turns, and she's back in the alleyway with him, hiding underneath the wilted ivy. 

"Shh," she tells him, grabbing his hand. "I saw Wells and Anya for a minute. Just let me concentrate. Squeeze my hand if someone approaches."

She closes her eyes and reaches out again, grasping at the moment she just left. She smells dirt and dampness, and opens her eyes. Wells and Anya are on either side of her again, Wells still pulling at the weeds though his shoulders are tense and his eyes dart between his careful work and Anya. And Anya - Clarke's Master is sitting on a boulder nearby, looking at her with sad, soulful eyes. There are large tears in her robes, tears with burnt, black edges, and her arm - the hand she holds her lightsaber with - 

"Master," Clarke says, her voice cracking. She stumbles forward, tries to embrace Anya and goes right through her body, like she did with Wells. 

"It's a Force vision, Clarke," Anya tells her gently, bowing her head so her moving lips aren't visible from the wall. "You're not really here. I'm sorry I can't hug you back. Wells and I need to pretend nothing's happening."

"She's back?" Wells asks. 

"She is," Anya says. 

"Is this real?" Clarke asks, her hand hovering anxiously over the emptiness where Anya's arm ends. Her saberhand - 

"Yes," Anya says, closing her eyes in pain. "We were in negotiations when Azgeda caught on to our plan. I tried to escape with Wells, but they're working with a Sith. Does the Order - ?"

"They know," Clarke says, fury rising up in her. "They know and they're doing nothing. Anya, they're not even trying to rescue you or help the rebellion at all. They just say they can't do anything without the Senate voting on it."

"They can't," Anya says mildly. 

"Who can't do what?" Wells hisses, and Anya hastily promises to catch him up. Clarke rubs at her face tiredly. She's starting to get a headache in her temples, behind her eyes, and she's afraid she might not manage this interaction for much longer. 

"Can you tell him Bellamy and I are doing our best?" she asks Anya. "We're even working together, he's - he's not so bad," she finishes lamely, and her cheeks heat up as she remembers the kiss underneath the yellow glow of the lamp, the warmth of his chest under her palms. _Please tell me Anya can't sense this_ , she prays, but if she can, her Master only cracks a smile and repeats her message to Wells. 

Wells stops pretending to weed and stares into empty space, where he thinks Clarke must be. It's a little over her shoulder, but her heart squeezes with both pain and joy to see his face looking towards her. 

"I'm proud," he says. "Of both of you."

"We're trying to get you out," Clarke promises, looking between Wells and Anya. "Both of you. But nothing we've tried affects that energy shield. Anya, what should I do?"

"It's too strong, little one, don't waste your resources on it. We have to destroy its power source. But I've checked the whole palace," Anya says grimly. "I don't think the generator powering it is inside. The Sith knew not to underestimate me, even wounded." She reaches out and gently touches the stump of her arm. "Clarke, you have to be careful. She's strong."

"I know," Clarke says, equally grim. "I fought her on Coruscant. I wouldn't have won that fight alone, if it kept going. But I'm stronger now, and I won't be alone. Bellamy and I will find the generator and destroy it, and after we free you, we'll fight her together. Tell Wells we have a whole rebellion."

"My Padawan all grown up and wreaking havoc," Anya says softly, smiling widely enough for her sharp canines to show. "I'm so proud of you."

Clarke swallows hard, and despite herself she tries to reach out and hold Anya's hand again. Her head throbs as their hands phase through each other.

"I'm so sorry," Clarke says, holding back the tears that threaten to come for the second time today. 

"You've done nothing wrong," Anya says firmly. "Just keep fighting, and be careful, Clarke. The Sith will be back."

"She won't win," Clarke promises. "Azgeda won't win. I'm gonna get you out - "

Her last words echo in a darkened alleyway. Her cheeks are wet again. Clarke sniffles in her huddled hideout and lets go of Bellamy's hand to angrily scrub at her eyes. 

"I only heard your half of the conversation," Bellamy says, tactfully looking ahead while she erases evidence of her tears. "Did you really see them both? They're safe?"

"Somewhat," Clarke says, rubbing at her forehead in hopes of easing her headache. The shock and horror and exhaustion are starting to catch up to her. She takes a deep breath before recounting as much of the vision to him as she can remember, her voice hitching as she mentions Anya's injury. She's always known lightsabers can cut through limbs, of course - as young Padawans she had lectures about their dangers practically drilled into her head - but it's been generations and generations since Jedi fought anyone else with sabers in anything other than a training match. The Sith were _gone -_ that war had been won. 

Until now.

"You look like you're about to fall over," Bellamy says. "We should head back to the forest. Harper should be done her mission by now, they'll be leaving soon."

"We can't," Clarke says, shaking her head even as her vision swims in front of her. "Anya says attacking the energy shield is a waste of time. She says to destroy whatever's generating it, but she thinks it isn't inside the palace. We've got to shut it down from the outside. We have to find it."

"Clarke," Bellamy says, with gentle patience. "It's okay. We've done enough today. Let's go home. We'll have Monty scan for energy sources, or we'll send patrols out tonight. But you're exhausted, and right now, you need rest."

She glares at him for another moment before relenting. 

"I hate it when you're right," she says, and she allows herself the stupid, selfish privilege of leaning into his warmth when he helps her stand up and get the blood flowing in her legs again.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Abby Griffin’s hologram holds her head high even as storms outside Sundari, Mandalore’s capital, run interference with her signal. Maya’s narrowed, nervous eyes flicker between every occupant of the clandestine meeting Kane has called. Lincoln, on the other hand, stares at the ghost’s files with an intensity that makes Kane wonder if he still remembers he’s not alone in the room.

"I assume we're all on board to release this information at tomorrow's Senate meeting?" Lincoln asks eventually. He steeples his fingers and presses them to his mouth to steady himself. 

"I don't know if we have a choice," Kane says, still reeling from the information himself. "If this doesn't make the Senate start a war, nothing will. It's the only thing that might save Arkadia."

"But Azgeda might destroy them to make a point," Maya points out softly, and Kane says nothing, because denying it would be a lie.

"Raven, are you still on the line?" Lincoln asks. 

"I am," the ghost says grimly. 

"Can you give our friends on Arkadia a heads-up through your contact?" he suggests. "Let them know that Azgeda might ramp up the destruction."

"Admiral Sinclair is getting the Mandalorian fleet together as we speak," Abby says. 

"And Trikru will be on your heels with relief supplies," Lincoln promises. "I'll make sure of it."

"I'll send the message," Raven says. "But because of Azgeda's signal jammer, he'll only receive it the next time he's in orbit."

"When will that be?" Maya asks.

"Don't know," Raven says shortly. "They don't keep regular shifts. Probably in the next 24 hours though."

Kane glances up at Abby’s projection.

“What do you say, my Duchess?” he asks. Abby’s mouth is hard line of anger.

“Release the documents,” she says stonily. “The Senate will make its decision, and I will make mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

`[secure message server 33-H4GP496]`

`[TO: Shaw, Zeke]`  
`[FROM: unknown source]`  
`[SUBJ: no subject]`  
`[FLAGGED: HIGHEST PRIORITY]`

`Z, need you to meet up with my friends asap. the bigwigs here are making a move, your employers might get mad. tell them to hold on and keep their heads down, C's mom is on her way to kick their asses and the trikru system are bringing food and medicine and stuff.`

`let me know when you've seen this message so I can stop chewing on my fingernails`

`R.`

`Encrypt (Y/N)? Y`  
`Send (Y/N)? Y`

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

An infectious mood overtakes the rebel camp that night. The  _Skyripper_ has just made planetfall with a fresh load of food - and alcohol - and no one can deny the exhausted rebels the opportunity to indulge a little, especially with the week's small victories breaking through the long stretch of fear and helplessness. 

Part of that is the news Clarke brought of Wells, part of that is due to the chaos they've managed to wreak. Zeke's aid has made their latest strikes on Eligius worksites significantly more effective. Even though Azgeda ramped up the security, their starfighters remain a step ahead, dodging around Azgeda's bulkier ships to shoot at explosives that Diyoza's teams casually leave unsecured to stall Eligius' progress. 

Bellamy's rebels sit in groups around the camp, clinking their dented tin cups together and congratulating each other on daring aerial maneuvers and stealth runs into occupied territory. He sweeps his gaze over them, finding missing places on their log benches where tiny mistakes have sent his pilots crashing into the forest in smoke and flame, or his scouts into Azgedan captivity. 

"Small victories," he reminds himself, speaking softly, but there's no one around to overhear. Octavia has teamed up with Jasper for some kind of drinking game near the kegs, and every time they win a round they do a complicated slapping handshake. In the firelight his sister's face looks softer, her everpresent eyeshadow smudged into something more ordinary, less fearsome. She laughs as Jasper dances to distract their opponents, her head thrown back, her nose scrunched up. Bellamy wishes he saw those sorts of laughs more often. His gaze drifts, finding Miller and Monty sitting on a fallen log, their heads bent together as they talk, Miller nodding while Monty gestures so wildly that his drink spills out of his cup and down his sleeve. Bellamy's lips twitch with amusement, and then, without his permission, his eyes settle on the flash of golden-bright hair by the campfire.

Clarke is at the center of a group of rebels, her dark brown robes pulled tightly around her to ward off the breeze that tugs at her hair and sends sparks from the campfire floating off into the deep dark sky. If Bellamy strains his ears he can hear them asking her questions about her Force vision, wanting updates on the prince they were forced to leave behind. He watches her gesture with her hands, watches her eyebrows come together with that familiar frown as she searches for words. It's been a long day, but he's not tired, not in the usual way. He traces the waves of her hair, mussed by the events of the day, and wonders what it would feel like under his fingers, imagines her sighing in contentment as he gently teases the tangles out. Imagines his fingertips trailing down to her jaw, her pulse jumping under her skin - 

She looks up from her conversation, her eyes finding his immediately even from across the camp.

Bellamy exhales like all the air's been physically struck from his lungs. 

Clarke says her goodbyes to the rebels surrounding her, hugging some, accepting encouragement and half-serious orders to get some sleep. He doesn't move as she makes her way to him, slowly, stopping every few steps to pat someone else on the shoulder or peek at some bandages. The rebellion loves its Jedi, even more so when she blends in with them, when she feels like a human and not just a terrifying force of will.

She comes to stand in front of Bellamy in his lonely corner of the camp, stepping between his knees, making him sit up straighter so he has enough room to look up at her face. 

"You're thinking very loudly," Clarke says lowly. It would feel like an accusation if her voice wasn't so soft, if she weren't reaching up to gently touch the faintest traces of a bruise on his cheekbone, the result of a skirmish with a ground patrol a week ago. 

"I'll try to tone it down," Bellamy jokes, and tries very hard to resist the urge to lean into her hand, to wish she'd touch him more. 

"You don't have to," Clarke says quietly. "I like the direction your thoughts are going."

"Whatever happened to being a good Jedi?"

A shadow passes over her eyes, and part of Bellamy kicks himself for reminding her, for causing her pain, even as the other part knows it's a question that needs to be asked. He's spent the past week trying so hard not to think about her lips on his, the hitch in her voice when she said they'd only get one kiss. It's so hard not to let himself hope when she's looking at him like that. 

Wells would laugh if he knew that it only took a war for Bellamy to fall in love. 

The sounds of the camp beyond them feel distant, like he and Clarke are in their own bubble. He doesn't look away as she deliberates. Her hand trembles. He reaches up, slowly enough that she could pull it back, and holds it when she doesn't.

"Your call, princess. Say the word, and we'll never bring it up again," he says. Clarke huffs, a flash of annoyance passing over her face, her hand squeezing his. 

"My mother is the _Duchess_ ," she retorts, a familiar argument between them. "And Mandalore is _not_ a monarchy."

"Of course," Bellamy says, trying not to smile. Clarke pulls on their clasped hands, tugging him to his feet. She's standing too close for him to have his own space when he stands, he stumbles, and she's right there, face up-turned, sharing his air. He can see her outlined by the flickering bonfires that dot their camp, but here in the shadows, they might have a chance of escaping unnoticed. 

"Maybe not here," he breathes, and she puts a hand on his chest and gently guides him backwards around the corner of a hastily-built cabin. It's getting harder not to hope, as she crowds him up against the cabin wall. Bellamy groans at the length of her body pressed against his. Her palms are cool but they do nothing to dull the heat under his skin. His hands flutter uselessly around her for a moment. He wants them on her hips. He wants them cupping her curves, pulling her closer. He wants them sweeping the skin under her clothes. 

Someone around the corner tells a joke and several rebels burst into laughter, making them jump. Bellamy's hands find her face instead, tracing a line to that mole above her lip with his thumb.

"We should probably move this inside," Clarke whispers, but she does nothing to support her words, still leaning into him, still keeping him trapped between the wood and the devastating heat of her body. Bellamy can't look away from her mouth. He nods, but he leans in anyway. The last thing he sees is her eyes, fever-bright, before her breath spills over his mouth as they're kissing again. 

It shouldn't feel so familiar. Bellamy's not a stranger to stolen time, secret kisses in darkened corners. He's found that there's no such thing as a _good_ kisser. Bad kissers are real, unfortunately very real, but good - good is up to personal interpretation. He's kissed people that made everything feel careful, deliberate, practiced. Clarke has no technique. Clarke's been raised by monks. Kissing her isn't supposed to feel good - she bites his lip too hard, her arms around his waist are so tight that he couldn't take a deep breath even if he wanted to - but Bellamy doesn't care. Happiness bubbles up in his chest and it comes out like a laugh, quiet and delighted. 

Clarke pulls back barely long enough to ask if he's laughing at her. Bellamy shakes his head, and she kisses him again, quick and fleeting, like she can't wait long enough for him to speak. He tightens his grip around her and kisses her skin wherever he can reach it - the upturned corners of her mouth, her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, the junction of her jaw and her neck. 

"Meeting you," he says fervently, between kisses, "Was the luckiest twist of my life. Clarke - you have no idea."

"I do," she says, "I do." 

"Seriously," he says as she nudges his jaw sky-ward and sets about sucking bruises into his neck. His fingers flex on the rough wool of her robes. "Clarke, we have to go inside. _Please_. I want to take your clothes off."

"So polite," Clarke teases. 

They sneak through the camp like teenagers, holding hands, struggling not to giggle as they duck between the cabins and behind trees to avoid anyone seeing them. Bellamy's heart is racing all along, even though no one sees them, no one stops them on their quest. Clarke barely closes the door to their cabin before Bellamy's backing her up against the table in the center of the council room. They knock a lantern to the floor as her hand grasps wildly behind her for balance, and collapse into giggles as it clatters to a stop. No one comes in to check. 

"Your bedroom," she says, pushing at his stomach, at his back when he turns around. "Bring the lantern."

He gropes blindly for the fallen lantern and follows her into the back. By the time he's twisted the top of the lantern and shone soft blue light into the room, Clarke's robes are already on the ground in a pool of abandoned cloth. Bellamy can't help the swear that falls out of his mouth as her tunic follows, followed by her pants. 

"I said _I_ wanted to take them off," he points out, but he can hardly be upset with the skin on display, ghost-like in the lantern's glow. He trails one hand along the side of her ribcage and has to remind himself to breathe.

"I couldn't wait," Clarke says, laughing again as she stretches upwards to kiss him. Her hands twitch, and Bellamy groans as the buttons on his coat start undoing themselves. 

"Underhanded use of the Force," he whispers. 

"Then undress yourself faster," she snaps, but they're both distracted by another deep, lingering kiss before Bellamy gathers his wits again and takes off the last of his clothes. Crawling into his bed isn't remotely romantic - it's an autumn night and the cabins are hardly warmer than the air inside. Bellamy settles his body on top of hers and noses at her neck while she complains of the cold. 

"Do something about it, oh great and powerful warrior," he says. Clarke wriggles underneath him and flips them over in a moment, pinning his wrists down and planting her knees on either side of his hips. 

"Now what?" she asks playfully. 

"Have you done this before?" Bellamy asks, looking at her eyes shining in the dim light. Clarke grows serious. 

"Not like this," she says, her hand coming to rest on his chest. His heart is still beating wildly, pumping adrenaline through his body, his hope and anticipation and wild fondness for her mingling until he's dizzy with it. He thinks he understands. It's too early to ask, too dangerous to know the answer in a warzone, but Bellamy thinks he knows what she's not saying. 

"Come up," he says softly instead, tapping at her hips until she gets the message and shuffles her knees forward. Bellamy presses kisses to the insides of her thighs and tries to memorize the way her breath hitches, the way she reaches down and grabs a fistful of his hair, before he moves his mouth where she wants it. 

He digs his hands into her hips and lets her set the pace, lets her grind down on his mouth until she's breathless and gasping his name, bites her thigh when she's too loud and they remember the camp on the other side of their rickety walls. When she's had enough Clarke shuffles back down to his hips and holds her breath as she sinks down on him. Bellamy thinks he might hold his breath too, if the black spots on the edge of his vision as he tries to hold eye contact are any indication. He gasps for air again as she rises up and then sinks down even further. His fingers splay out over her skin wherever he can reach. Her hips flush against his. Her breasts, shiny with sweat. The gentle outward curve of her stomach. The rest of the galaxy fades away.

Bellamy doesn't catch his breath again until Clarke slumps over him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, still murmuring his name. He wraps his arms around her and blinks furiously in the weak blue light, battling an unstoppable wave of emotion. It's not her weight squeezing his chest, but instead a longing. Bellamy's _wanted_ his whole life. He wants and he wants and he thinks it'll eat him alive. 

Clarke mumbles something into the skin of his neck and Bellamy can't stop smiling. His mouth is kiss-swollen and thoroughly bitten, twinging as it stretches into the smile he can't control. Bellamy lies there for a long time, listening to her breathing slow, trying to memorize the warmth of her bare skin and itch of her hair tickling his ear and her hand resting over his heart with steadfast certainty, like she's sure, even now, that she belongs there. 

"Clarke," he says affectionately, rubbing a palm over her damp, cooling shoulders. "Clarke, you gotta get off. Let me get the blanket."

"Don't want to move," Clarke says petulantly, her voice already thick with sleep. "Don't have to."

And she waves a hand ungracefully and the blanket jerks up to rest over them, somewhat unevenly. And even as its warmth envelops their sweat-cooled skin, Bellamy feels the content smile slip off his face as he remembers what it means for Clarke to be a Jedi.

He'd forgotten, for just a moment, that Clarke is Force-sensitive. It had faded in importance, like his own responsibilities. For a moment they had been just two young fools in love. But she is a Jedi, and they're in the middle of a war, and as long as the war lasts his people will keep dying, and when the war ends, she will go back to her Order and they will never be allowed this again -

He sits up suddenly, dislodging Clarke to the side. Her hand hovers over his arm, nervous, as though registering his turmoil.

"Bellamy?" she asks in a small voice.

He doesn't want to think about the future. He doesn't want to think about Arkadia. That will all be waiting for them in the morning, for now, he wants to be selfish for the first time in his life. _We have until dawn_ , he tells himself.

He twists his body so he's on top of Clarke and hides his face in the crook of her neck. A moment later her arms come around him hesitantly and fingertips skim his back.

"What's wrong?" Clarke asks. 

"Just overwhelmed," Bellamy murmurs. He exhales heavily. Clarke's fingers trace soothing circles along his spine and with each rotation Bellamy finds himself relaxing.

"Think out loud," Clarke prompts. One of her hands strays to his side and her thumb digs into a pressure point between two ribs. Bellamy hisses his displeasure and gently bites her shoulder in retaliation.

"You're an asshole. I can't believe I like you this much," Bellamy says, half affronted, half awed. Clarke turns her face into his shoulder and smothers a low laugh. Bellamy shifts to bring her closer and presses his mouth against the corner of her lips, murmuring against her skin. "If you'd told me, when I met you - "

Clarke winds her arm around the back of his neck and kisses him.

"I know," she says. "You were such a _jerk_."

"You like it," Bellamy says. He tries to kiss her jaw again and finds he's smiling too hard. He bumps his teeth against her jaw and she makes a quiet, offended murmur. Her hands tighten on his hair.

"I'm glad you're here," she says, so maybe he's not the only one dreading the dawn. "I'm glad it's you."

"Yeah," Bellamy agrees, understanding. He buries his face in her loose hair, spilling warm and pale over their pillow, and tries to memorize the feeling of her hands tracing soothing patterns into his scalp. "This whole thing is terrifying," he admits, and he means all of it. The responsibility, the destruction of Arkadia, the forces behind it that he doesn't understand. Even Clarke; the way she made a place for herself at her side, like she'd belonged there all along, makes his breath catch in his throat when he thinks about it. He surfaces from her hair and traces a fingertip along her collarbone. His hand trembles. "I need you," he says quietly. Clarke is perfectly still underneath him, her eyes wide and intent on his face.

In a kinder world maybe he'd have the privilege of saying a different word instead. If they didn't have so many lives to carry on their shoulders, maybe they could have taken this slower, more carefully. But no, Bellamy thinks, remembering - in a kinder world, they would not have given each other a chance at all.

Clarke untangles one of her hands from his hair to grasp the one he's left by her collarbone. She slots their fingers together and squeezes.

"I need you too," she says softly, and some of the tightness in Bellamy's ribcage eases. She tilts her chin up, a little imperious jerk that commands him closer and he would have hated it, before it. He surrenders without hesitation to it now, pressing a light kiss to her nose. Clarke's eyes flutter shut. "We should sleep," she says. "It's late, and we have a full day of mayhem to get to in the morning."

He can't resist kissing her again, before finally conceding and laying his head down on the balled-up sweater he pretends is a pillow.

"Good night, Clarke," Bellamy says.

Clarke traces his jaw in the darkness and smiles, soft and hazy. Bellamy closes his tired eyes with that image in mind.

Later, he is woken by the sound of rain against the roof. The stormclouds have finally broken. Bellamy lies awake for a few minutes, a little disoriented, listening to the pitter-patter, the drips as it leaks through the gaps in their hastily-constructed cabin. Next to him, Clarke is frowning in her sleep, her hands clenching their blankets, her limbs tense and trembling. Their bubble of joy seems far away already. 

"Hey," Bellamy murmurs, reaching for her as she twitches violently, a whimper escaping her lips. "Clarke, you're having a nightmare."

Her eyes open and they're glassy and afraid. A crash comes from the front room - the council room. Bellamy swings his legs over the side of his cot and has barely fastened his pants around his waist when Octavia stumbles in. 

Clarke sits up in an instant, the blankets pooling around her bare waist.

Bellamy doesn't immediately realize Octavia's crying because she's drenched from the rainfall, but she collapses to her knees in the doorway of their bedroom, arms wrapped around herself, shaking hard, too disturbed to comment on their state of undress. 

"Make it stop," she begs Clarke, barely acknowledging Bellamy. "Please - it's in my head, it hurts, it's cold, please make it stop."

Clarke pulls her Jedi robes to her with the Force and wraps them tightly around her as she goes to Octavia's side. 

"What's wrong?" Bellamy asks, dread settling into the pit of his stomach as Octavia trembles and sobs on the floor, and Clarke rests a hand on her shoulder and stares into the distance. "What's going on?"

Clarke looks up at him slowly, her face bleak. 

"A Sith," she says. "Someone's arrived on Arkadia."

Thunder rumbles outside their cabin ominously. Bellamy remembers the cruel flash of lightning before it hit him in the chest. He swallows hard.

"The assassin we fought on Coruscant?" he asks as Octavia sobs. 

"Worse," Clarke says, barely above a whisper. "Bellamy, I think it's the Master."

"Please get it out of my head," Octavia begs her, curling in on herself. Bellamy sees his baby sister again, four years old and thrashing on the floor of their kitchen because the world was so loud and she couldn't block it out, and he feels the same sense of awful helplessness as he did then. "It's too much, please, _it's hurting me_."

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ARKADIA**

 

A door on an Eligius transport ship slides open with a quiet hiss. Light spills into a dark room from the doorway, interrupted only by the silhouette of a small cleaning droid. The door slides shut behind it as it gets to work, its little motors whirring diligently. 

The droid does a quick sweep of the room and concludes that none of the obstacles preventing an optimal hygienic outcome have been moved in the past three days since its last visit to this particular bunk, not even a little bit. It calculates the probability that the room's occupant has entered their bunk in the last three days and finds it below the desired threshold. The droid compares this result to the protocol that states that bunks should be reassigned after seven days of unoccupancy. The condition fails, so the droid discards its calculation and continues its work. A jacket bearing a neatly-sewed patch spelling Z. SHAW is still abandoned at the foot of the bed, next to two discarded socks. The droid drives into the socks and shoves them a few inches to the right. One nearly gets stuck in its forward vacuum - to dislodge it, the droid abruptly drives backwards with a disgruntled whistle and bumps into the room's console. 

The impact makes the screen light up. An indicator on its dashboard flashes blue, rhythmically, like a pulse. Z. SHAW has unread messages - not that it matters much to the little droid on the floor. It vacuums up some dust that has gathered beneath the air vent and departs for the room next door. The door hisses shut behind it. The console remains lit for a while, the indicator pulsing, waiting for someone to come along. 

After a long period of inactivity, it returns to standby mode.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know if mindfulness can help someone resist a Force suggestion. Some species like [Hutts](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Hutt) and [Toydarians](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Toydarian) have innate immunity, but Bellamy's just like, _really_ determined.
> 
> Since TLJ came out, I guess that's the most canon example of a [Force bond](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Force_bond). Before that there was some debate over how strong a Force bond is and how it's experienced, but a 'training bond' between a Master and their Padawan is pretty frequently agreed on. I took some liberties with Clarke and Anya's shared vision, mostly because of plot reasons.
> 
> In the last scene I was picturing [this droid here](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/MSE-6-series_repair_droid), which is apparently a repair droid and not a cleaning droid as I thought. *shrugs* 
> 
> Additionally, I would like to remind everyone that this work is tagged w/ _"Angst With A Happy Ending"_ and I intend to make full use of it. Okay maybe not full use. Like three-quarters use? We'll see. You can find me on tumblr as [kindclaws](http://kindclaws.tumblr.com/).


	10. unread messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** Nothing specific, I think. That being said... _*points at 'Angst' part of the 'Angst With a Happy Ending' tag*_ It's Coming.

 

**ARKADIA**

 

"We have to move now," Clarke says, pacing back and forth under the flickering light in the war council. She's barefoot despite the chill, too distracted to put on pants, and she shivers as the door to the cabin creaks open and a rush of cool air follows Monty inside. She tucks Bellamy's robes more securely around herself and crosses her arms under her chest, trying to keep herself together, trying to keep warm, trying to keep everything in.

"We're not ready," Monroe insists once more. Next to her, Bellamy has his head in his hands. He hasn't said anything yet. Octavia is huddled in the background, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her wet hair still occasionally dripping onto the floor. Clarke doesn't think she's stopped shivering since she came in, and it's not just the cold. She feels it too, something insidious, like the smell of rot on the wind.

"Monty?" Clarke asks, turning her attention back to their resident tech expert.

"I'm running some calculations now, with the updated inventory lists," he says, holding up his datapad. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand, and Clarke feels a little guilty for waking everyone up so early. Last night's celebrations, the first tentative moment of relaxation they've had in a while, would feel like it happened an eternity ago if Clarke couldn't feel the stretch in her thighs and the bruises Bellamy sucked into her skin just a few hours ago.

"What does the Sith's arrival really change?" Miller asks from his seat.

"I couldn't defeat the assassin one-on-one," Clarke says, hugging her torso tighter as she remembers that awful fight at 500 Republica. She and Miller and Bellamy all could have died then. They should consider it a miracle that they're all still here to argue today. Clarke swallows. "So if we're right, and that was only the apprentice - if the Master has come to Arkadia, there will be destruction. People are going to die, no matter how hard we fight. Rebels will die, captive Arkadians will die..."

"You haven't answered my question," Miller asks. "We were facing huge danger before the Sith too. What _changes_?"

"Our odds are even worse?" Monroe mutters.

"I don't think I want to do this," Harper says, a note of panic in her voice. "Arkadia's moon is semi-habitable. I think we should retreat, take as many people as we can with us."

"And leave Azgeda to destroy our planet?" Monroe argues.

"We have allies in Eligius - " Harper points out.

"Who have only agreed to slow down the mining, not stop it. They won't go to war outright," Clarke reminds them all.

"What if they did?" Bellamy asks, the first time he's spoken up since Octavia stumbled in sobbing incomplete sentences. Everyone's eyes swivel towards him.

"They're not a very friendly bunch," Monty mumbles.

"You guys are panicking," Miller says. "Let's slow down for a minute. The Sith are here, and that's important because..."

"They could destroy everything," Clarke says. "Monroe's right, our odds have always been terrible, but we were holding our own. Maybe we even had a chance. But a Sith could kill me one-on-one, leaving you without any Jedi at all. Could pick our Eligius spies out of a crowd from their thoughts and kill them all, and just like that we've lost the advantage we have on the mining operations. Could find your doubts in nightmares and turn us all against each other without breaking a sweat."

Bellamy rubs at his face. Monroe coughs wetly, and Clarke makes a mental note to listen to her breathing later, see if a cold is settling into her lungs that she could ease. Miller stares into space, expression unreadable.

Monty's datapad beeps. He raises it quickly, hoping it's modeled a successful strategy as much as the rest of them, before his face falls.

"Monty?" Miller asks hoarsely.

"It's not looking good," Monty says. "Honestly, I think Harper's got the best idea..."

"This is our planet," Monroe argues. "We can't abandon it so quickly."

"What are the numbers, Monty?" Bellamy asks hoarsely. An uncomfortable silence settles upon the war council.

"At best, my model says we have a 32% chance of success." Monty eventually relents. Miller swears quietly. Bellamy reels back as though physically struck. All around the table, everyone is looking similarly sick with the idea.

"I won't order people to die if they aren't prepared to," Bellamy says eventually. "Harper, Monty, please start loading all our relief supplies and any refugees or rebels who want to retreat onto the transport ships. Monty can find a habitable, remote planet for the evacuation to set up camp. Harper, you have command of that portion of the rebellion."

Harper covers her mouth with her hand and looks halfway between relieved and disgusted, tears glinting at the corners of her eyes. Monty just closes his eyes and hangs his head. He does not argue with being sent away, and that in and of itself says something.

"Yes sir," Harper says brokenly. "Should we start now?"

Bellamy nods. Harper walks past Clarke on her way to the door, slowly, her steps hesitant, like she's waiting for one of the war council to call her a coward, like she's waiting for an order to stay. None comes. She meets Clarke's gaze as she's passing by, and Clarke reaches out and catches the hand limp at her side. She squeezes, and after a heartbeat, Harper squeezes back and gives her a weak smile.

Or maybe she was waiting for others to follow. The door closes with a muffled thud behind Harper and Monty. Miller is staring hard at the closed doorway.

"Miller," Bellamy says. "You should go with them."

"You're not," Miller immediately retorts.

"We should be with the ones we love right now," Bellamy says hoarsely. Miller swallows hard, looking torn. His face, usually so cool and impassive, is suddenly alight with emotion. On anyone else it would be a lot to take in, on Miller, seeing his torn expression feels so intimate, so invasive, that Clarke immediately looks away. It seems kinder.

"I'll just - I'm gonna talk to him about it," Miller says, already moving towards the door. "I'll be back."

It closes behind him. Four left in the room.

"What about the rest of us?" Monroe asks, though she, too, looks like she has someone to follow out the door. Clarke's seen her and Harper falling asleep on each other's shoulders at the end of long meetings. And another wave of hatred washes over her for Azgeda, for tearing them all apart like this.

Something cold and creeping trails intangible fingers down her spine. _Yes_... it says. _Feed your hatred_. Clarke flinches and spins around, but there's no one there. Octavia is watching her from her spot, huddled under blankets, with red-rimmed eyes as sharp as flint.

"I'm going to ask Eligius if they'll help us," Bellamy says. "And then I'm going to find the generator Master Anya told us about, and I'll destroy it. And then, if all goes well, I'll join the retreat with Wells and anyone else still trapped in the palace."

"You're our highest ranking member of government right now, Bellamy," Monroe says. "This is... a big risk."

"I won’t ask my people to take risks that I won’t,” Bellamy says. Clarke simultaneously loves and hates him for it. He wouldn’t be Bellamy if he wasn’t willing to lose everything, but the tight, aching feeling in her chest when she looks at his jaw clenched with determination – that feeling goes beyond her last standing orders from the Jedi. Protecting him is no longer a promise she made to Anya. It’s a promise to herself now, to the reverence in his eyes from last night, the relief of skin against skin, awash in soft blue light. Clarke looks away.

“I’ll set up a meeting with Zeke,” she says, and she tries to keep the dread out of her voice.

 

 

 

 

 

`[secure message server 33-H4GP496]`

`[TO: Shaw, Zeke]`  
`[FROM: unknown source]`  
`[SUBJ: no subject]`  
`[FLAGGED: HIGHEST PRIORITY]`

`Z, please check in, what's going on? you're usually online by now. have you contacted C and B yet? tell them not to do anything more outrageously stupid than usual. fuck, I want to STRANGLE that signal jammer.`

`R.`

`Encrypt (Y/N)? Y  
Send (Y/N)? Y`

 

 

 

 

 

**MANDALORE**

 

The Duchess of Mandalore stands alone at a window twice her height and looks out at the landscape of a dying planet. The gray, lifeless view from her glass castle is the result of the last time Mandalore went to war. Their divided factions sought victory at all costs, and they did not stop until those costs were breathable atmosphere and arable land. She has stood here, staring at the broken horizon, for many times the past weeks. The painful reminder of war, the promises her people made to retreat to their glass castles and hope the planet recovered one day - this is the reason she hasn't already moved against Azgeda. And now she wonders how many Arkadians have died from her decision to wait and see what solution the Senate could come up with.

The Duchess looks down and folds her long, elegant fingers together. She is wearing a pale blue gown today. If anyone asks, she will tell them it is a strong Mandalorian colour. She will not tell them it reminds her of her daughter's eyes, her daughter who she hasn't seen in months, who might be injured and losing hope.

Clarke, the Duchess thinks, hasn't learned anything from the sight out the window. _Or maybe_ , a traitorous voice whispers, _she just learned the opposite lesson you did_. Clarke was born on a dead and dying planet and looked at the burnt fields and the ruined cities of her ancestors and agreed with her mother that they must never let this happen again. But where the Duchess sat back on a hard and unyielding throne and tried to make peace through politics, Clarke took a more... proactive approach. The Jedi have already come knocking at her door, blaming her for Clarke's recent insubordination. If the Griffins had given Clarke to the Jedi fully, if the Duchess hadn't insisted that her daughter get to spend some time with her and with Wells, then _supposedly_ she would not be so headstrong.

The Duchess doesn't think she can take the credit. She would not have run from the Order, in Clarke's place. The stubbornness, yes - Clarke has inherited that from her. But the righteous fury - that's all her father’s.

Eventually the Duchess turns away from the window, and tilts her head back to look at the massive portrait hanging on the opposite wall, where three figures state through the glass on their eternal watch of the dying horizon. Clarke is tiny in the portrait, wisps of golden hair barely curling around the bottom of her ear, her wide blue eyes taking up half of her baby face. It was painted only a few weeks before they realized she was Force-sensitive. Abby held her daughter in her arms for the painter and thought she would have her forever, and Jake too. Her gaze drifts up and grows wistful as she looks at her husband's portrait. If anyone can be blamed for Clarke's insubordination, really, it would be Jake.

She looks away before the old grief of his death can return. And just in time, a knock comes on the door. Abby takes a deep breath, and just like that the Duchess returns. Her face becomes cool, impassive. Her shoulders straight and unburdened, her eyes piercing.

"Come in," the Duchess calls, and when the door opens there is not a trace of uncertainty visible. It turns out not to have been necessary - it's only Callie who comes in.

"Kane's reporting in," Callie says softly, drumming her fingers against the door. She isn't using the honorifics they're bound to in public, so Abby relaxes marginally. "Are you ready?"

"I'm not," Abby says dryly, pinching her light blue skirts between two fingers as she strides across the room. She does not turn back to look at the doomed landscape through the window one more time, but she does not need to. She knows it intimately now. It has looked the same all her life. "But when has the galaxy ever waited for us to be ready for it?" she muses as she reaches Callie.

Her childhood friend sighs heavily and tucks Abby's hand into the crook of her elbow.

"You sound melodramatic today," Callie says. "Should I be worried about your decision?"

"Yes," the Duchess says under her breath. "We should all be worried."

In her chambers, Kane's holographic silhouette flickers blue and white as he bows his head to her.

"What do I tell the Senate?" he asks. The Duchess' lips twist into a pained, sardonic smile.

"Mandalore is going to war," she says, in a clear voice that rings out through the room, mimicking a confidence she doesn't feel at all. "And I don't care if that tears the Republic apart."

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

A silhouette crests the edge of a rocky gorge, lit up by the soft blue-green glow of Arkadia’s phosphorescent mushrooms and lichen. She doggedly picks a way through the tree roots and undergrowth - an impressive task with both of her hands full with a massive repeating blaster. There's only one person on Arkadia who carries a weapon that big.

"Do you see Zeke?" Bellamy murmurs to Clarke. He strains to watch for movement beyond Diyoza. They've met her a few times before, but only ever with Zeke present as mediator. Diyoza's casual apathy to the rebellion's values still unsettles Bellamy.

"She's alone," Clarke whispers back to him. "Still want to chat?"

"Better than no one," Bellamy says, and at his jerky nod, Clarke signals their location with two flashes of her lightsaber, her thumb twitching on the power switch. Her eyes, lit up by the forest’s glow, are flat and unreadable. She hangs at Bellamy's back as Diyoza approaches. He feels her relax only marginally as Diyoza comes close enough to see their faces and hefts her giant blaster over her shoulder so the monstrous barrel isn’t pointing straight at them. Bellamy eyes it with vague interest, noting that Miller would love to get his hands on one of those.

“Nice night for a romantic stroll in the woods,” Diyoza drawls. Bellamy doesn’t like the way her sharp gaze is measuring the small space Clarke has left between their shoulders. For all that Zeke has claimed Diyoza’s an ally in their briefings, the woman’s military-straight posture and the knotted white scar across her throat don’t inspire trust in him.

“If romance was what we were looking for, we wouldn't have invited you," Clarke says irritatedly, and Diyoza chuckles at that. "Where's Zeke?"

Diyoza waves a hand dismissively. 

"He mouthed off to our Azgedan supervisors one too many times and got himself locked in a mine shaft so he can think about his choices for a day or two. So you have me instead."

Clarke grimaces.

"Don't worry, they'll let him out at some point. Now, do you have a message to pass on, or did I drag my pregnant ass into the middle of the woods for nothing?" Diyoza asks. She digs the barrel of her blaster into the ground and leans on it as a crutch.

“We have a proposal,” Bellamy says. “We’re planning a full-scale offensive on Azgeda.” They don’t need to know that his rebels’ ‘full-scale’ is a handful of carbon-scorched starfighters and rusty landspeeders. “If you join us, it’ll mean the end of the occupation. We’ll resettle your people in Arkadia with mine. You can lead peaceful lives.”

“That sounds like the same reward you offered us for a little sabotage,” Diyoza says. “All of a sudden, you’re asking for much bigger risks from us. Won’t you sweeten the pot?”

“There won’t be a pot if we don’t drive Azgeda out,” Bellamy argues. “If you sit in your camps and do nothing, if we lose when we could have won with your help, you won’t get any part of Arkadia after the war.”

“Still a gamble,” Diyoza mutters. Bellamy can feel Clarke hovering at his side. He wishes she would speak, or give some indication she’s not a ghost in the night’s blue-green glow. Diyoza plants her giant blaster in the ground, barrel down, and crosses her arms across her chest. The muscles in her arms flex, sending crisscrossing scars pale against the surrounding flesh.

"Why the hurry?" Diyoza asks after a long moment of deliberation.

"We're running out of time," Clarke tries to lie.

"We were running out of time yesterday, and the day before," Diyoza says with a perceptive glint in her eye. "What's changed?"

"A Sith Master landed on the planet," Bellamy confesses. Clarke gives him a sharp glance, and he raises his eyebrow at her imperceptibly before looking back at Diyoza. "And we're afraid of what they might do, given more time."

"Ah," Diyoza says.

"Will you help?" Clarke asks.

A long moment, broken only by the hum of insects and the shriek of a far-away predator. Bellamy’s throat grows tight.

"No," Diyoza says, hefting her repeater blaster back up on her shoulder. Clarke tenses, taking a half-step between her and Bellamy until it grows clear Diyoza only means to carry her weapon. "Sabotaging Eligius, sure. I've got no loyalty to them and no reason to see their pockets lined with more money. But my crew and I aren't going to march into a doomed war against a goddamn Sith. No. I'm out."

And she walks away, whistling like she hasn’t got a care in the worlds. 

"Wait!" Bellamy calls out desperately. He can’t stop his fists from clenching at his sides.

"Zeke told me why you were arrested," Clarke says, and Diyoza stops in her tracks so abruptly that she nearly trips on a tree root. She stands as still as a stone, staring straight ahead into the darkness. Clarke takes a step forward. "If we die and you could have done something - if he's right, you'll regret it."

Diyoza turns her head halfway, her profile outlined by phosphorescent flora. One hand comes up to rest on her belly. For a moment Bellamy thinks she'll come back, that Clarke's changed her mind, that they won't be abandoned by yet another. 

"Maybe," Diyoza says shortly. "But at least I'll be alive to feel bad about it."

Bellamy’s heartbeat echoes in his ears as they watch Diyoza walk away. 

Clarke's hand flies out of its own accord, her fingers splayed and straining. Bellamy sees her face, the focus in her eyes and the set of her jaw that means she’s concentrating on the Force, and whatever she finds when she reaches out is so strong it makes her take half a step back to balance herself.

"Clarke, no," Bellamy says, and then he's stepped in front of her to block her view of Diyoza’s retreating back, as though his body could be enough to stop her, as though she couldn't fling him aside and tear the trees out of the soil they've sunk their roots into -

Bellamy's hands find hers. He folds his fingers into the gaps between hers, presses their palms together to ground her. Clarke’s eyes are still staring into the distance, her gaze ancient and terrible, but when Bellamy presses his forehead to hers the tension melts out of her strained fingers and they curl into Bellamy's. All the breath leaves Clarke’s lungs with a choking sob as she lurches forward into his chest, the Force having released whatever grip it had on her.

"We've lost - " she tells Bellamy between hitching breaths. "We've led the rebellion to their deaths for _nothing_. We can't save anyone."

"It's not over. We're still breathing," he says, but he hugs her too tightly and they stand there in the middle of the forest, swaying with weeks of exhaustion, for a long time. The sky is beginning to lighten by the time they return to camp. The last stars in the sky are pale pinpricks that evaporate from view as night gives way to the morning's pinks and oranges. Dawn has come, and they still have no plan.

 

 

 

 

 

`[secure message server 33-H4GP496]`

`[TO: Shaw, Zeke]`  
`[FROM: unknown source]`  
`[SUBJ: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!]`  
`[FLAGGED: HIGHEST PRIORITY]`

`Z, the senate meeting is in an hour, we're running out of time!!! where ARE you?  ~~do I have to do everything myself?????~~ is everything okay?  ~~If anything's happened to you~~ I need you to get in touch with my friends and tell them not to do anything fucking stupid.`

~~`I fucking hate being so far away and not knowing what's happening` ~~  
~~`PLEASE Zeke please what's going on`~~

`Encrypt (Y/N)? Y  
Send (Y/N)? Y`

 

 

 

 

 

 **CORUSCANT**  

 

Kane is packing when Maya bursts into his apartment.

"Is it true?" she asks wildly.

"CP-13L, please disable your microphones for a few minutes," Kane tells his droid.

"Certainly, sir," the droid says in a cool, polished voice, and continues to fold the clothes Kane's set aside with jerky, practiced motions.

"I missed the Senate meeting," Maya says breathlessly. She starts pacing back and forth in Kane's apartment, her claws clicking quietly against the floor. "Cage sent me on a stupid quest to bring him takeout and wine because he's trying to hit on the Senator from Ryloth, and gave me the wrong address, but he said I couldn't come back without it and - _ugh_ \- I can't believe I missed the meeting that will go down in history as one of the most pivotal moments of the Republic!"

Maya spins on her heels at the foot of Kane's bed and lets her body fall backwards onto the blankets, arms thrown out to either side. Her tail continues to twitch in irritation at her side even as she stares up at the ceiling, brooding. Kane looks back at his half-empty wardrobe, picking another few robes for his droid to fold, and suppresses a smile. After the hours spent studying and planning with him and Lincoln, Maya eventually grew comfortable enough with them to betray her young age. Teenagers, Kane finds, are similar across species. He's yet to meet one who wouldn't like to dramatically throw themselves on the nearest surface every once in a while.

"Pivotal is a bit of an exaggeration," Kane remarks lightly.

"It's really not," Maya says glumly. "The collapse of democracy as we know it began today, and when my grandchildren ask me where I was, I will have to tell them I was running errands for my asshole boss."

"The collapse of democracy?" Kane says, the humour from his voice gone. He sits on the edge of the bed next to Maya and meets her worried, feline eyes. "Is that really how you feel?"

"Yes and no," Maya says, rubbing a hand at her face. Her tail anxiously lashes as she sits up. "Sorry about flopping on your bed."

"It's all right," Kane says. "Sometimes that's what we need."

Maya doesn't laugh. She stares ahead glumly. Kane waits. The only sound in the apartment is Kane's protocol droid mechanically filling his suitcases.

"I can understand why you did it," she says eventually. "Arkadia needs help. Mandalore could give it, if the Senate would allow it. But the Senate won't lift its restrictions… so you're... leaving the Republic."

"Yes," Kane says. He feels a little guilty for not giving her a heads up. He found Lincoln before the Senate meeting and told him of Mandalore's plan to secede, but neither of them could find Maya in time. The reactions and emotional farewells he got afterwards have left him feeling exhausted and wringed out, a damp rag twisted around with no more water left to drip.

They sit in silence for another long pause.

“The Republic is only strong while people believe it is,” Maya says softly. “Mandalore leaving it… you won’t be the last. You’ve started its collapse.”

Kane closes his eyes.

“It’s possible, yes,” he admits. “It wasn’t a decision my Duchess and I made lightly.”

“ _Why_?” Maya asks, her voice breaking.

“The war is inevitable, and Clarke won’t leave it,” Kane says. His tone makes it sound so simple, though he knows it’s anything but. “And the Duchess won’t let her daughter die alone.”

“Sir,” Kane’s protocol droid says, jerking its limbs to an unflattering imitation of parade stand. “Your luggage is ready to go and the shuttle is waiting, sir.”

Maya’s eyes track Kane as he stands, and the look in her eyes is nearly unbearable. He’s been in politics for a long time, even before he joined Mandalore, but it never fails to drive a knife between his ribs when he sees young people looking at him like he’s betrayed their sense of justice, of right and wrong. He wishes he could tell them how hard his choices are, even as he knows he’ll never let on.

He's taken aback when Maya speaks suddenly.

“Take me with you,” she says, half-begging. He blinks, and thinks that he might have completely misunderstood her agitation.

“Maya – “ he begins.

“I can’t just sit on Coruscant fetching takeout for a despot until the Republic completely falls apart around us,” she continues, leaping to her feet and pacing furiously around him, her tail lashing with passion. “Take me to Mandalore, I’m – I’m good with history. I’ve read some military reports. I’ll do research, I’ll help somehow – “

“Maya,” Kane says. “You’re a citizen of Zygerria. You’re one of Senator Cage’s political aides. I _can’t_ take you with me. Mount Weather will accuse me of kidnapping.”

“But I’m willing,” Maya says. “I can’t just do nothing! I _want_ to leave.”

“That won’t matter to them.”

“It matters to me,” Maya insists.

“This isn’t a game, Maya,” Kane says, a note of impatience entering his voice despite his efforts. “It never has been. Mandalore is going to _war_. It won’t be like the holos.”

“I _know_ it’s not a holodrama,” she says with an uncharacteristic snarl. “My mother died fighting to end Zygerria’s slavery trade! I have grown up knowing exactly how awful war is. I am one of the _last people in this stupid building who doesn't treat this as a game!_ "

Behind them, Kane's protocol droid drops a suitcase. 

"Oh, my," he says, his robotic voiced laced with distress. Maya stares Kane down with her feline eyes narrowed into daggers. He inhales deeply, holds the breath for a moment, and lets it out slowly, feeling his shoulders slump. Maya doesn’t seem to be exhaling at all. 

“Please,” she breathes. "Take me with you."

“I’m sorry.” Kane says, turning away. "Your heart's in the right place, but I won't risk retaliation from Mount Weather by taking you." His protocol droid follows with creaky limbs, reminding him of his shuttle’s imminent departure. Maya, left behind, remains accusingly silent until he reaches the door. 

"Then you're just like them!" she shouts after him. Fabric rustles, and a moment later, Maya's shoe slams into the doorframe by Kane's head. He tries not to react. "You talk and talk about doing the right thing but you won't step on any toes!" Her voice drops into a warbling, mocking tone. " _Oh no_ , what if we tell that system they're violating basic sentient rights and they  _stop trading with us!_ Won't someone please think of the poor _economy!_ "

"Maya - " Kane tries.

"Step on _this_!" 

Her second shoe impacts the doorway on his other side. Kane departs, knowing he's forfeited the argument. 

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

In the back of the cabin, the sound of the rebellion dismantling camp and preparing for their largest assault yet is muffled through the logs lashed together with twine and tap. Bellamy takes a break from the chaos to hide a small armoury in the folds of his clothing. The loose-sleeved Senate robes from a few months ago are just a distant memory. He dresses like his rebels now, in the same dusty trousers and a patchy navy-blue jacket left over from a previous Arkadian royal guard who didn't come home from a mission.

On his belt, Bellamy hangs flash grenades, smoke grenades, the like. Distractions, more so than anything that could cause heavy-duty damage to innocent bystanders. His part in today's events will be a search and rescue mission, not an attack. In a thigh holster he slides a small vibroknife, and hopes he doesn't have to use it. His two handblasters go into his belt, as well as a spare battery pack.

Monty comes in just as he's patting his pockets down and testing his range of motion, rearranging anything that doesn't feel natural. Bellamy glances up, notes the pose Monty takes up leaning against the doorframe, doesn't see the worry he had earlier.

"How are the non-combatants coming along?" Bellamy asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow while he inspects a dent in one of the blasters with half of his attention.

"Harper's in charge of the retreat, she'd know better than me," Monty says quietly. Bellamy slides the blaster back into its clip and straightens up.

"You aren't helping?"

"I talked with Miller," Monty says. In his hands he twirls a small datastick. He looks serious, pensive, but not heartbroken. Bellamy ignores his preparations for a moment, trying to read his friend.

"Monty," he says, tiredly. "You've done so much for Arkadia. You smuggled in so much food and medicine for us. You don't owe any more. You never did. You don't have to die for this rebellion."

"I won't," Monty says, meeting his eyes with a quiet, sturdy confidence. "I'm not willing to die today, Bellamy. But I'm not ready to say goodbye, either. Not to Arkadia, and not to you. I'm going to pilot the Skyripper, hang as close to Coronet City as I can. If you survive your trip into the palace... well, I'll be waiting to get you out."

Bellamy lets out a heavy breath, admittedly surprised by this turn of events.

"We might not even get anywhere near the palace." he says, after a moment of struggling to decide what to address first.

"I got good news for you on that, actually." Monty says. He reaches into a bulky thigh pocket and pulls out his datapad. He unlocks it, swipes up a scan, and hands it over. Bellamy takes it and turns it around, trying to decipher what looks like a tangled maze. "Here."

"What's this?" he asks absently.

"One of my drones did a scan for energy signatures," Monty says with a note of pride. He taps the datapad where a bright teal dot pulses in the center of the tangle. "I cross-referenced it with some of the infrastructure blueprints we stole from city hall and eliminated everything that could be explained with Arkadian records. Then I layered it over a map of the sewer system, and it lined up perfectly. That dot there, that's new. That wasn't there before the invasion."

"The generator," Bellamy realizes, his eyes flickering quickly to Monty. His mouth runs dry with excitement, even as his palms grow warm. "Monty, you genius, I could kiss you for this."

"I'm taken, and if I'm not mistaken, you have your eyes on someone else," Monty says dryly. Bellamy winces and hands the datapad back to him.

"Better to keep that quiet," he murmurs, glancing at the door to the cabin as though she might appear, summoned by mere words. In his head, a voice that sounds suspiciously like hers admonishes him. _That's not how the Force works!_ "It's... complicated."

"Sorry for bringing it up," Monty says, touching his elbow sympathetically. "I just thought... after the looks you were giving each other at the bonfires last night..."

"Yeah," Bellamy says, looking at his feet. "I know. I just... We're at war. The universe won't stop for us." He clears his throat, feeling deeply self-conscious for caring about this, for having had a few hours of happiness while his planet still burns. It doesn't feel fair. "Back to the generator. How large of a team do you think we should assign to search the sewers?"

"Well..." Monty begins, his voice trailing off, and through the haze of stress and exhaustion that hangs over Bellamy's mind, something clicks. It's not premonition. It's not the Force. It's just that after nearly two decades of having known his sister, Bellamy has come to expect that he will find her at the source of trouble.

"No," Bellamy says lowly. He picks up the last few items strewn on his cot - field rations, half a tube of bacta gel - and crams them into his pockets without another thought, then brushes roughly past Monty.

"You can't seriously expect me to believe that you thought she'd stay behind," Monty says behind him, nearly jogging to keep up as Bellamy storms through the war room and out the door.

"She's clearly not fit for a mission right now," Bellamy hisses back, refusing to slow down. " _Any_ mission, let alone one this important. Did you see her this morning? The Sith messed her up."

Monty pulls him back by his arm.

"Bellamy, I agree with you! But how are you gonna break it to Octavia, huh? Anything you say, she'll take as a challenge."

"I can't just do nothing," Bellamy says desperately, knowing Monty's right, knowing he's forfeiting the veneer of calm he's been faking since the Sith broke atmosphere. Monty shakes his head mutely, but the grip he has on Bellamy's sleeve falls away without resistance as Bellamy keeps walking.

Octavia is seated on a rock at the center of camp, an unmovable point around which the rest of the camp orbits in ordered chaos. Pilots roll heavy drums of fuel over the uneven ground, topping off their too-small fleet of starfighters. Volunteers wash the last of the breakfast dishes, packing them hastily into crates to be taken to safety with Harper's retreat along with blankets and medicine and the food they never have enough of. Squadron leaders call for attention in Bellamy's wake, their rebels straightening up as he passes. And in the center of it all, facing away from Bellamy, Octavia sits with her head bowed over her lap and sharpens her sword.

A few more strides and finally Bellamy reaches her. His hand stretches out for her shoulder, his mouth forming the first syllables of her name - and she whirls around, eyes wild, teeth bared. Bellamy feels his body picked up as though by a whirlwind and finds himself flying back before landing heavily on the ground, several steps back.

"Octavia!" Monty yells, as Bellamy looks up at the cloudy morning sky and wheezes from the impact. Distantly he notes the pink-gold of sunrise, the clouds that may give Harper's fleet cover under which to flee. The air returns to his lungs slowly, his ribs smarting. He sits up, coughing, his eyes watering, to a crowd of concerned rebels.

"I'm fine," he mutters, waving them off. Octavia is still seated on her rock, twisted around to face him, her face pale.

"I'm sorry," she says with a stammer. Bellamy looks at her and sees the little girl she used to be, locked up in their tiny apartment, hands clamped over her ears as cutlery stabbed into the walls. He forgave her, every time she lost her temper, because the alternative was admitting they should have given up and let the Jedi take her away. Bellamy looks at her now, at her red-rimmed eyes and the tremble of her hands around the hilt of her vibroblade, and for the first time he thinks that he doesn't know how to protect her from this. "I'm sorry," she blurts out again, shaking. "I felt - I thought you were - " 

"O," Bellamy says tiredly, climbing to his feet slower than he should - he'd be dead if this were a battle, he needs to move faster, but they're all so goddamn exhausted - "Octavia, tell me it's not true. Tell me you're not actually planning to go shut down the generator yourself. Someone else can do it, you can - "

"You don't have someone else," Octavia says quietly. Bellamy blinks at her. He's still a little winded, head spinning, still feels like he's catching up.

"What?"

"We're undermanned," Octavia says, and she sounds almost gentle, almost apologetic, and that's not right, that's not how the script goes. "There's not enough of us left, Bell. You need me to do this. Monty will be our getaway driver in the Skyripper. You can't afford to take one of your other pilots."

Bellamy sits heavily on the rock next to her and Octavia shifts to make room, pulling one knee up and balancing her vibroblade on her lap so its wicked sharp edges don't catch on Bellamy's thigh. He slumps and hides his face in his hands with a groan.

They sit in silence for a long time, watching the rebels scramble through the camp. It hurts to see it stripped to its skeleton: the clotheslines hung up between cabins coming down, anything useful and portable gutted from the cabins, dirt piled up to smother the cooking fire that has burned low but steady for weeks now. Something in Bellamy's ribcage hurts, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He rubs at his side, but it's not from Octavia's Force-push.

"We might die today," Bellamy says quietly. He's smart enough to keep his voice pitched low enough that no other rebels will hear it.

"I won't let you," Octavia says immediately. He wishes he could be surprised. Bellamy gives her a sharp, suspicious look and in response she raises her vibroblade. Sunlight glints off the flat of the blade as she angles it to show him its surface, criss-crossed with a tiny lattice. "It's laced with cortosis. Niylah found it for me - we weren't even sure it existed, at this point, all we had to go off of were legends."

"It's a sword, Octavia," Bellamy says flatly. She flushes, her cheeks and ears red with anger. When they were kids they both used to blush like that, he remembers suddenly. 

"Cortosis supposedly makes lightsabers short out," Octavia shoots back. "So out of everyone in the rebellion, I might be the most equipped to fight off a Sith."

"Have you ever tested it?" Bellamy asks, and he knows she hasn't when she looks down, sullen and frustrated with him. "Have you even ever fought against a lightsaber? Gods, Octavia, it's hardly an advantage if you have no idea if it'll work. Why did you wait until the last minute to mention this? You could have tested it with Clarke."

"Why do you think Niylah and I went looking for a sword like this to begin with?" Octavia snaps. "So I'd have a chance to get away if a Jedi ever found me. I'm not stupid. I wasn't going to give up my element of surprise."

"Clarke's - " Bellamy immediately says. Whatever he was going to say sticks in his throat. "That's different. This is Clarke we're talking about - she's - she wouldn't - "

"Maybe," Octavia says coldly. "Maybe not. I know you have a raging crush on her, but this is my secret. You'd better not say anything about it to her."

For a few moments there, Bellamy had sat and enjoyed the silence with his little sister. He thought maybe there'd been a chance there, to soothe the friction that's plagued them since Aurora's death. He thought - but no, they've gone and lost it now. It's this awful war. There's never enough time to make peace with everyone he misses.

"I won't tell her," Bellamy promises at last, and it's not about Clarke, or Octavia, or the gleam of her vibroblade. He promises because he can see the camp around him and he knows they're running out of time, and he hopes Octavia will survive today but he thinks he won't, and he doesn't want to say goodbye like this. He doesn't want to keep prodding at the injuries between them they've never let heal until she takes her sword and stalks off. He doesn't want what might be their last conversation together to carry all this anger. 

He sees some of the tension melt out of her wiry shoulders, her red-rimmed and haunted eyes go a little softer around the edges. 

"Thank you, big brother," she says, and it's almost like they're okay again. Her voice is hoarse and she loves that stupid sword more than she ever loved a teddy bear and her bare arms are covered in scars that weren't there before he set her free for a life of piracy - but it's enough. It has to be enough.

"We might not make it out of the palace in time," Bellamy says, though it hurts to voice to his fears. "I want you to disable the generator and get out immediately. Find Monty, get on the Skyripper. If we can join you, we will, but if not... I don't want you to wait."

Octavia's knuckles twitch bone-white on the hilt of her vibroblade. 

"Maybe," she says. 

It has to be enough. He reaches out and lays his hand over her paler one, squeezes until she releases the hilt and turns her palm up. Her fingers squeeze back around his. 

"Stay safe," Bellamy says, his throat thick, and he gets up before he can start crying. He inhales deeply, and lets Octavia's hand slip out of his. And then he walks away, one foot in front of the other, and it gets easier to breathe the further he gets, the more he focuses on the rover at the edge of camp, where Miller's just finished loading in their backpacks and Clarke's golden hair flashes through the window. He can't save everyone, but he might be able to save Wells. He just has to remember the mission. 

Later, he will be glad he had the chance to say goodbye to Octavia before...

Well, before everything.

 

 

 

 

 

`[secure message server 33-H4GP496]`

`[TO: Shaw, Zeke]`  
`[FROM: unknown source]`  
`[SUBJ: wtf]`  
`[FLAGGED: HIGHEST PRIORITY]`

`Zeke PLEASE, WHERE ARE YOU????`

`Encrypt (Y/N)? Y  
Send (Y/N)? Y`

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Miller has started to take his blaster rifle apart twice since they woke up in the middle of the night to news of the Sith's arrival. It's soothing to him, has been since he joined the royal guard as a teenager. He's not a mechanically-minded person, but it's not about how the pieces fit together. It's about the routine. It's about the memory of his father's larger hands showing him the motions. Miller can almost hear his low, calm voice in his ear, carrying him through the motions. 

He didn't always get along with his dad. For a few years he thought he might join one of the tuner crews. He was good at hotwiring the fancy landspeeders visiting diplomats would park in the political sector of Coronet City when they came to see the previous Jaha. The older boys would perform the actual theft, but Miller's father knew, somehow, no matter how good his poker face got. He knew years before Miller finally got caught. Jail strained things between them for a while, until his dad put his foot down and signed him up for the guard. Said it would teach him discipline, give him something to believe in.

What would he say now, if he knew how true it has become?

He hasn't seen his father since the start of the invasion. Monroe saw him during the evacuation, but they split up when his father went to go help another group of refugees. Miller still refuses to entertain the possibility that his father might be dead.

Miller goes to find Harper just before it's time to go. She's supervising the retreat with red eyes and a spine made of unwavering iron. Miller lays a hand on her shoulder, briefly, to let her know he's there, and her head tilts subtly to acknowledge him.

"Are you ready?" Miller asks, nodding at the crew loading the last of their supplies into the shuttle. His voice is hoarse. He hasn't spoken aloud since he said goodbye to Monty, since it hurt so bad he spent the first few minutes afterwards just staring at his shoes willing himself not to cry. 

"There is no such thing as ready," Harper says. She finally turns and raises an eyebrow. "Are  _you?_ "

"Point taken," Miller says. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth to speak, but Harper beats him to it.

"Keep them safe," she says fiercely.

"That's what I was going to say," Miller replies. He gives her a steady look. "It's not wrong. Don't feel bad about this."

"Part of me wants to stay and fight with you guys," Harper says with a sigh. "But I'm - I'm so tired, Miller."

"Protect the future of Arkadia," Miller says. "We'll catch up." He reaches up and his fingertips find the familiar hard edges of the badge on his shoulder, the royal emblem of Arkadia. His jacket is so worn by the months of guerilla warfare that it tears after a few hard jerks. He presses the badge into Harper's hands and wills them both not to cry. "If we don't come back - if my dad made it away from the invasion, he'll hear about you. He'll come looking. Please. Tell him we tried to make him proud."

"He'd be so proud, Miller," she says with a watery smile. It says something about the desperation of their mission that she does not try to give the badge back or reassure him that their survival is guaranteed. He's always liked that about Harper - a certain steely resolve under her kindness, a will that does not take bullshit. "I know you're not big on hugs, but..."

"Just for you," Miller says gruffly, and tries not to smile as she throws her arms around his neck and squeezes. He hasn't hugged enough women in his life for it not to feel weird - she has curves in places Miller is not used to. Still, it's Harper, and he's worried about her, so he hugs her back and counts to five in his head.

"Keep them safe," Harper says again as she pulls away. Miller forces a smile and walks a few steps backwards, giving her one last nod before she turns back to supervise the evacuation with her head held high.

"Okay," Miller says to himself as he strides to the rover. "Go time."

Bellamy gives him a nod as they pile into the back of the rover.

"You good?" Bellamy asks gruffly as he buckles up next to Roma.

"Oh yeah," Miller lies. "Let's go."

It's clear from Bellamy's face that he does not believe him. This is fine.

Miller leans his head back and feels the rumble of the rover's engine start up. His hands itch to take apart his blaster rifle again, to check if it's cleaned, to see the gears running smoothly inside, to hear the memory of familiar mantras. But he can't. He stops himself. What if they get attacked by Azgeda before Miller's put the damn thing back together again? What if something happens, and Miller could have stopped it? What if he breaks the promises he's made, both implicit and explicit, to keep everyone safe?

He leans back in his seat and lets his head thud against the side of the rover. Across from him on the other bench, Clarke stares back with an equally miserable face. 

"You all right?" Miller asks. For a second he thinks he might not have spoken loud enough over the hum of the engine as it strains over rocky ground, but Clarke inclines her head and sighs. 

"Can't meditate," she says. "The Force is..." She reaches up as though to rub at her temples and then abruptly puts her hand back down and casts darting glances around the back of the rover, like she's been caught redhanded. Next to her, Bellamy watches with a frown. He shifts in his seat and the motion presses the sides of their thighs together. Clarke sits ram-rod straight and starts staring a hole through the rover wall just over Miller's shoulder. Bellamy delicately rests his hand on his thigh. Slowly, he moves it to Clarke's, the touch light, fleeting. 

A moment later, Clarke stops wringing her hands and drops them into her lap. She turns her palm up, and Bellamy's fingers brush over it before settling. Clarke's hand tightens around his so tightly that it shakes, and Miller finally looks away, feeling like he's intruded on something horribly intimate. 

It's not a surprise, not exactly. He's shared the cabin with them all these weeks. He knew what he was doing when he started sleeping in Clarke's room instead of his and Bellamy's. But it still feels kinder to pretend he doesn't know, that he hasn't seen the way they'll gravitate to each other every evening no matter how far apart they start the night. A few weeks ago Miller might have teased Bellamy for falling for the Jedi he was so irritated by at first, but that was before any of them could have predicted the naked longing in his face now. 

"There's a myth I haven't told you yet," Bellamy says quietly. On Miller's other side, Roma tugs her hood up further down her face and tries to squirm further into the corner, clutching the pendant he's seen her pray to before. They've all got their pre-battle rituals. 

"Yeah?" Clarke prompts hesitantly. 

"You remember the one from last week, about the island that couldn't be found on a navicomputer?" Bellamy asks.

"The one no starship could leave, without permission from its guardian," Clarke murmurs back. Her voice sounds steadier already. 

"Before she was trapped on the island, the guardian was supposedly..." Bellamy begins. Miller closes his eyes and lets his friend's low, melodious story carry him to another time, where everyone he loves is safe, and he's not still clutching his blaster rifle in his hands, and they aren't headed on what might very well be a mission that gets them no answers and no survivors. He wishes Monty were here with them about as much as he's glad he's not.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [desolation of Mandalore](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mandalorian_cataclysm) is canon and is absolutely intended to parallel Earth after the season 4 and 5 finales.
> 
> The weapon Diyoza carries is [the same one Baze Malbus has](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/MWC-35c_%22Staccato_Lightning%22_repeating_cannon) in Rogue One, because damn, but like, b i g g e r. The decision to have Diyoza choose not to join this battle was difficult, because I really wanted to include her, but she's not the sort to fight what she believes is a losing war. (Not anymore.)
> 
> I have been waiting ten chapters to make a Mandalorexit pun.
> 
> [Cortosis-weave](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Cortosis) is a semi-canon metal/crafting technique that results in swords that can go up against a lightsaber. There was no such thing in the movies, but the writers of various spin-offs were like, fuck we gotta nerf the Jedi somehow, and came up with various ideas, some more plausible than others. Also, I'd like to add a disclaimer/research mistake: [Vibroblades](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Vibroblade/Legends) can apparently cut through energy shields that lightsabers can't, which would render the whole "we can't rescue Wells and Anya!!!" subplot useless. So we're gonna pretend we didn't just find that out. For plot reasons, and because I was already nearly done the story and didn't want to rewrite it. What is Star Wars canon, anyway?
> 
> The story that Bellamy starts to tell at the end is, at least in my head, a mix of [Circe](https://www.greekmythology.com/Other_Gods/Circe/circe.html) from Greek mythology and [Mortis](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mortis) from SW semi-canon.


	11. a people, not a place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the chapters of this fic are around 6-7k. This is a 15.5k, friends. It is a LONG BOI. Do not read this if you're putting off a responsibility or you're supposed to put on pants and leave the house in the next few minutes. If you're one of the readers who is up at 2am GO TO SLEEP, I see the timestamps on your comments and you're stressing out my inner slavic grandma.
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** the angst part of that angst with a happy ending tag is there for a reason!!! There are several minor character deaths coming up ahead. Also, uh, lung trauma and some minor medical talk regarding that.
> 
> All the characters who die in this chapter are dead in canon. If there is a character whose death you would be particularly sensitive to, you can message me on tumblr before you read for reassurance or more detailed warnings. The angst+violence in this chapter is canon-typical for The 100, but after many years in this fandom I know some of us are sick of that.
> 
> Chapter title from Thor Ragnarok.

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Atom kills the rover's engines.

"We're here," he says from the driver's seat, interrupting the end of Bellamy's story. In the back of the rover, the rest of his squad straightens up, eyes alert, hands holding their blasters close. Miller leans over to reach the door latch and lets himself out without looking sideways at the others. Bellamy and Clarke let go of each other's hand like they've been burned, anyway. He allows himself one more glance at her, finds her blue, worried eyes already waiting. 

"Let's go," he says under his breath, just for her, and then louder, "Eyes sharp!"

"We _know_ ," Miller mutters as Bellamy clambers out of the rover. 

His feet sink into soil. The scent of smoke hangs in the air, but that's nothing new. It's been their ever-present companion during the occupation. Bellamy tries not to consciously commit the details of his home to memory as they sneak through the last stretch of forest and past the fenced limits of Coronet City, but a growing sense of grief threatens to engulf him nonetheless. 

When he was twelve he tried to get a job at that bakery on the corner, that one with its bright golden ovens gone cold and dark, with the door hanging loosely off its hinges. They wouldn't hire him, but the baker's wife would sell him bread for half-price if he came at the end of the day and there were loaves unsold. He doesn't know what happened to her, if she made it out of the city to a refugee camp he isn't overseeing, if Azgeda dragged her away when they kicked the bakery's door in. And that street - if he keeps going down that and turns left at the chapel with the bonsai trees, he'll see his old school, maybe the teachers kept holding classes as long as they could, maybe they are still hiding their students - 

Clarke knocks her shoulder against his as they're all pressed against a brick wall, waiting for Miller's signal to keep going. Bellamy meets her gaze. _Are you okay?_ she mouths. He doubts she can lipread well enough for him to spell out things like _this was my home and they've torn it apart and taken my people_ , and _this is the last time I'll see this city_ and _I don't know if I'm ready to say goodbye and let them destroy the planet._ He can't say all of that. There's no time. 

So he nods tightly and gestures for them to keep moving. 

On the other side of the city, Octavia and her team should have already entered the sewers. It's a good sign that they haven't heard any commotion yet, it means they made it through safely. Bellamy needs to make it to the palace just as she's reached the generator. 

He needs this mission to be worth it.

Clarke sends subtle suggestions in the Force to patrols to look the other way or to go investigate the sound of rubble she's dislodged a street away, and the others dart through the gaps in Azgeda's stranglehold on the city streets. They don't speak, not even when Atom trips on an uneven cobblestone and Bellamy barely slows down as he grabs his arm and hauls him back upright. They have a close call when a patrol comes by with an astromech droid that's immune to Clarke's influence, and it splits off from its Azgedan companions with a suspicious whistle. Bellamy holds his breath, heart pounding, as it wheels down the shadowed alleyway they're hiding in. Roma meets his eyes and nods sharply, though she too looks frightened. She takes a deep breath and peels off from the shadows behind an overflowing trash can to stab one end of her electrostaff into the gap between the astromech's head and body segments. It lets out a high-pitched whine as sparks fly from its seams and then it goes dark and silent. 

"Could it have been transmitting?" Miller asks, barely above a whisper, and they share uneasy glances. Bellamy's ears strain to hear the distant footsteps of the patrol that will notice their missing droid any minute now, any minute... 

Clarke ignites her lightsaber and plunges it through the lock of the door leading out into the alley. The low hum it makes as metal melts away and the door swings open makes the back of Bellamy's neck crawl - it's too loud, too infamous - but Miller grabs his shoulder and shoves him inside the building without waiting for approval. 

They emerge in what looks like an abandoned general store. Overturned shelves lie on their sides where they fell, broken and crushed merchandise strewn about. It looks like anything useful has already been scavenged. Bellamy's eyes follow the footprints leading out of the spill of a shattered bottle of vegetable sauce. They're child-sized. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't Azgeda who tore through the city. Maybe it was the last of his citizens, just trying to find something to eat.

"No movement in the alley," Roma updates them, closing the door behind them though there's not much point with the hole Clarke's put in it.

"Then let's keep moving through," Bellamy says, and he grits his teeth as they pick a way through the upturned store. It turns out Atom grew up around this neighborhood - he describes this block as a stretch of connected shops.

"So we could cut through the walls blocking off each shop," Atom is saying, gesturing with his hands, "Or there's an alleyway out back where the shops get their deliveries - "

Clarke suddenly stiffens, her hand flying to her lightsaber hilt, just before Bellamy hears a nearby crash and a following squeak. The hollow ringing sound of metal echoes in the shop as all of them stand to attention, ears straining. Bellamy turns the corner around a still-standing shelf, and sees an empty can of food rolling to a stop. At the end of the aisle, a girl who can't be older than ten or eleven stands as still as a statue, her eyes and wide and terrified as they meet his. Bellamy immediately holsters his blaster. 

"Over here!" he calls out. "It's just a kid." He raises his hands and crouches, trying to make himself seem smaller and less threatening to the child. "Hey," he says gently. "My name's Bellamy. You're safe with us."

Roma reaches him first, and lets out a sigh of sympathy as she sees the girl's hollowed cheeks and dirty lace dress.

"Oh, sweetheart," she says. "Are you okay? Were you looking for food? We have some, we can share," she says, and lowers her back to the floor with slow, predictable movements. "Do you like beans? I have some beans, they're cold, but they're good for you."

The girl creeps closer. 

"Yes please," she whispers, her voice wavering like a candle caught in wind. Roma smiles at her and digs through her pack. Fingers skim the top of Bellamy's shoulder, and he knows it's Clarke letting him know where she is.

"What's your name?" Bellamy asks. 

"Charlotte," the girl answers, though her gaze is firmly fixed on the small container of beans Roma brings out. She doesn't wait for Roma to find her spoon as well, just tears off the lid and starts dipping her fingers in. 

"Take it easy, your stomach might not be ready for food that quickly," Clarke says, but Charlotte doesn't seem willing to listen. 

"What do we do?" Miller asks Bellamy under his breath. "She's a kid, a stealth mission isn't exactly the best place for her."

"We can't leave her here, either," Bellamy argues. "Eligius will keep drilling. Anyone who's left on the surface when Arkadia starts to collapse will die."

Roma watches them with a frown and a meaningful jerk of her head towards the kid. Bellamy glances and sees her completely absorbed in the food.

"Charlotte," Clarke asks carefully. "Are you alone here?"

She freezes immediately, her cheeks still filled with a mouthful of beans.

"They took everyone away," she says, as best as Bellamy can guess through the food in her mouth.

"Who? Azgeda?" Miller asks. "Do you know where?"

Charlotte shoves another spoonful of food in her mouth, watching Miller and the others warily, like she's bracing for an attack but wants to eat as much as she can before it comes. Bellamy hates that he can recognize the desperation from his childhood. Not like this, not in a warzone, but - parts of it.

"You're safe now," Clarke says, her voice gentle and reassuring. Charlotte's shoulders relax marginally. "You can come with us - "

The tiny progress she'd made with Charlotte vanishes as the walls slam down and fear returns. Charlotte drops the tray of beans and leaps up. 

"You can't take me too!" she shrieks, sprinting down the aisle and darting around the corner before the rest of them have scrambled back to their feet. They spread out instinctively, looking down aisles, leaping over spilled shelving where it obstructs their path. Charlotte dodges Atom's attempt to grab her shoulders and makes a beeline for the door that hangs open on destroyed hinges and opens out onto the deserted main street.

Charlotte's nearly made it across the street to another open, darkened doorway when Roma throws herself out into the street after her without pausing to look or think. Bellamy lurches to the door, his hand outstretched and reaching to drag her back to safety -

The high-pitched _pew-pew_ of blaster fire is all the warning that they get before Roma drops in the middle of the street. A cry of shock lodges into Bellamy's throat and remains there, strangled and quiet. Miller and Clarke each grab one shoulder and wrestle him back into the shadows, safe from whoever shot her - Roma, his rebel, his responsibility, killed for the crime of wanting to help a scared and hungry child, she's here because of him -

"She's gone," Miller growls into his ear. "She's dead, stop fighting us. You can't help, you'll only get yourself killed too."

Bellamy slumps backwards in his and Clarke's grip, staring at the sight through the doorway in disbelief. Across the street, he thinks he sees a flash of frightened eyes and dirty lace, as Charlotte whirls away from a window to hide herself again.

The impact of the blaster shot spun Roma's body around. Her hand fell into a muddy puddle and remains there, the pendant she uses to pray still tied to her wrist and half-submerged in the grime. From this angle, Bellamy can't see the wound that killed her, but he can see her eyes, wide-open and forever staring at some spot above their heads, going glassy already. Down the street, distant but growing closer, he can hear the shouts and footsteps of Azgedan soldiers as they come to investigate.

"Come on, we have to go," Clarke says, shaking Bellamy's shoulders. He looks at her blankly, and her blue eyes flicker with pain. She raises her palm and cups his cheek. Bellamy leans into her touch, needing the warmth, needing to believe something gentle can still exist in the universe. "We have to go," Clarke repeats softly, and he hefts up his blaster and nods. 

None of them can bear to speak until they've fled far away, following Atom through twisting cellars and narrow alleyways. 

"Stop and rest," Clarke says eventually, as she peers around a corner. "Everyone drink some water, take a bite of rations."

The food tastes like dust in Bellamy's mouth and goes down about as easily, but he forces himself to swallow in tiny bites. His mind keeps replaying the moment of Roma's death. The shudder that went through her, her shoulder knocked back, the way she twisted over her ankles, momentarily weightless, before crashing down to the earth with her blank face turned towards them. He feels like he should have at least taken her pendant. Washed off the mud, seen if she had family with Harper's retreating fleet. Bellamy's talking like he'll have a chance to find out, like he'll survive this mission and reunite with the rest of the rebellion. Maybe Roma didn't have family left. Maybe that's why she volunteered.

"Time to go," Miller says after they've all caught their breath, and Bellamy drags his gaze upwards with difficulty. 

Atom sits with his head between his knees, unmoving though he must have heard Miller. Bellamy crawls over and rests a hand on his shoulder. 

"Hey," he says quietly. "You ready? Stand up with me."

"I can't," Atom says, muffled by the tattered woolen scarf he's tucked his chin into. Bellamy swallows hard. 

"I know," he says tiredly. "But we have to keep moving."

"I'm gonna die here," Atom says, sounding feverish, panic-struck. 

"If you sit here, you definitely will die," Miller interrupts. Bellamy shoots him a look over Atom's shaking shoulder.

"We have to push through," Bellamy says, trying to sound more optimistic than he feels. "We've got a chance to succeed at this, and we have Monty waiting to fly us away at the end. But we can't stay here."

"You still have hope?" Clarke asks softly. He looks up at her, momentarily struck breathless by the intensity in her eyes. Some people go their entire lives without being looked at like that, he thinks. He's not sure how he made it so far without knowing what it feels like to have a mirror of himself staring back. 

"Are we still breathing?" Bellamy asks. Next to him, Atom sniffs loudly and wipes his nose on a muddy sleeve. It leaves a streak of dirt across his cheek that he doesn't dare point out, not when the young rebel is trying so hard to gather his wits. 

"Okay," Atom says, shaking himself roughly, like fear is something physical he can dislodge from his shoulders if only he loosens the grip around his throat. In the dim light of the alleyway he looks too young to be in a warzone. Bellamy knows they all do. "Let's go."

They keep going, looking over their shoulders for Azgeda, wondering if they'll get a warning, or die like Roma did, without questions asked first. They see no other survivors hiding. Bellamy's chest still feels tight when they reach the boundary of the palace. They hide in the gutted-out house of a diplomat, crouched in the jagged remains of expensive pottery and torn-apart antique furniture. The palace sits surrounded by the purple haze of the energy shield blocking their way, untouched by the destruction that has swept through the rest of the city. They take turns drinking more water and watching it through a shattered window.

Bellamy's the one on duty when the shield flickers and then melts away, giving them a path forward. It gives him a small measure of relief to know Octavia's made it to the generator in the sewers, that she's safe and undiscovered, that she'll be on her way out to safety now.

Clarke grabs his hand as they get ready to sneak into the palace through the entrance that brings deliveries to the kitchens. He looks at her, and he knows they don't have time for this, but he's selfishly grateful for a moment with her anyway.

"Be safe," she says, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. "Don't take unnecessary risks."

"I could say the same to you," he tries to joke, but her resulting smile is wan. They don't have time for everything else he wants to say, though the words and pleas crowd his lungs, press against the inside of his ribcage. It seems kinder, when they may die today, not to put it out there.

 

 

 

 

 

**UNDERNEATH ARKADIA**

 

Jasper shivers and stoops to duck underneath a low-hanging pipe as he follows Octavia through the sewers underneath the city. 

He doesn't really remember much about the planet he was born on - his first memory is Monty, aged four, getting taffy stuck in his hair - but he's heard it's covered in lava. His whole life, he's preferred being too warm over being too cold. There's a reason he sleeps next to the engine room on the _Skyripper_ , and it's not just because the machine hum lulls him to sleep. A cold, damp, _smelly_ sewer is the opposite of his idea of a good time. 

If he's having a bad time, though, Mbege is having a worse one. The third member of their party swears as some many-legged creature the size of their fists scurries between his feet, leaving behind a trail of slime. Jasper rolls his eyes and tries to look over Octavia's shoulder at the map she's carrying. She flicks his nose with an impatient finger when he tries to rest his chin on her head - she's never stopped grumbling about the growth spurt that placed him a full head taller than her and Monty - but angles the datapad so he can see better. 

"I think we missed that turn," Jasper murmurs, pointing at a bend in the map. 

"No we didn't," Octavia snaps. Her shoulders are tense. "It's just the way the map is drawn. It should be three-dimensional." 

"If we don't find the generator soon, I'm going to crawl out of the next manhole and take my chances with the Azgedan patrols," Mbege mutters. Jasper wishes, not for the last time in the past hour, that someone else had been assigned to their mission. Roma, maybe. She's pretty, and she doesn't seem offput by Jasper's sharp, toothy grin. 

Octavia's head suddenly whips around. 

"Leave me alone!" she hisses, and Mbege takes a step back at the ferocity in her voice. Jasper blinks rapidly, then frowns. Octavia's not looking at Mbege. If he didn't know better, he'd say she's talking to... a sewage-splattered wall.

"You okay?" Jasper asks, laying his hand on her shoulder. She shakes him off roughly before he's even laid any weight, and Jasper tries not to feel hurt. This war's been tough on all of them, and he understands tempers fraying, but he and Octavia have been friends for _years_. They're not just crew, they're family.

"Let's keep going," Octavia says brusquely. She makes another sharp hissing sound and slaps at the air next to her other ear, like there's a bug buzzing around her, and then stalks off without another word. 

"What's wrong with her?" Mbege asks, sounding nearly as disgusted as he is by the sewage. Jasper brushes past him without dignifying that with a response. He knows Octavia didn't sleep well last night, that the Sith's arrival woke her up somehow, and the Force she doesn't know how to control feels like even more of a headache than usual. It's not his business to share. He and Monty are used to it by now, Octavia's frustration manifested in the world, but it does more good than harm. He's lost track of the number of times Octavia's Force-sensitivity has saved their asses on a heist. He thinks she's allowed to be cranky sometimes. 

"How do you think the others are doing?" Jasper asks, hoping maybe he can distract her. In response, Octavia kicks a pipe hard enough to make the impact reverberate up and down the tunnel they're traversing, the vibration vanishing into the darkness on either side of them. Jasper grimaces. "Is this a bad time?"

"Just shut up," Octavia snaps, but again, Jasper gets the uncomfortable feeling she's not talking to him. Mbege catches his eyes and tries to make some rude gestures. Jasper sticks his tongue out at him and hurries to catch up with Octavia, falling into step with her so he doesn't have to keep looking at Mbege's ugly face. 

He keeps quiet, not voicing any of the swirling thoughts in his head, but dares to peek at Octavia's face every once in a while. It's hard to tell with the weak red lightstrips that line the tunnel every few meters or so, but he thinks she might be paler than usual. She's definitely sweating, little beads of perspiration gathering along her hairline and rolling down her face when they get too heavy. Jasper has no idea how she’s so warm. The sewer feels chilly to him, and Zabraks are a near-Human species. His and Octavia's physiologies can't be that different. She's not even particularly warmly dressed, stalking through the tunnel in just trousers and a tanktop that bares her tattooed arms. Her breathing sounds laboured, too. 

"Hey," Jasper says, and he tries to mimic her breathing, letting deep breaths break his syllables even though breathing in the sewage is the last thing he wants to do. "I'm really - out of breath - can we take a - a break?"

"We're almost there," Octavia says, and this time, she sounds almost pleading. Her eyes dart from side to side as she turns to Jasper, adjusting her weight from one leg to another, like she can't rest even a second. "Please - I don't want to stay here."

Jasper's heart sinks.

"Okay," he says, and if Octavia notices that he stops being out of breath as suddenly as he started, she doesn't comment on it. She consults the datapad twice more, jumping at shadows as she does, and at last they reach a metal door set into the stone wall of the labyrinthine sewer.

"This must be it," Octavia says, and nods as Mbege pulls out his blaster and blows a hole through the lock. It swings open with an ominous creak. Mbege strolls through it confidently, looking over his shoulder to talk to them. 

"So we blow this popsicle joint, and we're out?" he says. He never gets an answer.

Jasper _feels_ movement, more than he sees it. A rush of air in the small, enclosed room. The sound of a lightsaber igniting has grown familiar to him, with all the times he's seen Clarke practicing in the rebel camp. But the deep crimson colour of the blade that suddenly blazes to life just over Mbege's shoulder is anything but. Jasper opens his mouth to choke out a warning just as the lightsaber skewers Mbege through the chest. His eyes widen and his lips form a soundless word, and then the lightsaber drags itself out of Mbege's body back the way it came. His body falls to the floor in an unmoving heap. 

In an instant, Octavia puts herself between him and their attacker, her long, wicked vibroblade held out as the last desperate defense. 

" _Why_?" Octavia cries out. The vibroblade barely wavers, but her shoulders are shaking. Jasper has spent the last hour wandering through the sewers with her, trying to fight back his revulsion at the smell - now this, seeing Mbege's body, seeing Octavia look so small against the hooded figure that stands before them - this is what really turns his stomach. He reins in his nausea and grips his blaster rifle like a lifeline. He's seen Clarke fighting. He knows they don't stand a chance. But he can't just give up, either. 

Behind the figure with the red lightsaber - _the Sith_ , his mind whispers, _call them what they are_ \- he can see the generator they came for. If they don't shut that down, they won't be the only ones to die today. Bellamy and Clarke and Miller - oh god, the love of Monty's life is counting on him - are up there, waiting for a way into the palace. Jasper will not tolerate a universe where Monty loses both his best friend and his boyfriend in one day. 

The Sith lowers the lightsaber to their side, and one mottled hand reaches up and pushes the hood back from her face. Red light catches on and glimmers off a bone-and-crystal crown. Jasper grimaces. 

"Queen Nia?" he says. " _Seriously_?"

The _aren't you like seventy years old?_ remains stuck in his throat when Nia reaches out and tosses his body aside with the Force like she knew she wasn't going to like whatever he said next. The back of Jasper's head cracks against the far wall and his vision goes black for a moment. He tastes rust in his mouth as he wakes, slowly and unsurely. He reaches a hand up and gingerly pats the crown of his head, his fingers brushing the nubby horns that poke out of his hair. He's broken one, he thinks, maybe cracked another from the impact. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. 

Broken horns are, to Zabraks, a sort of mark of adulthood. A sign of survival, of a battle won. He's not sure if he's going to live long enough to share the passing of his childhood with anyone. 

He sits up slowly and tries to focus his blurry gaze on Octavia.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" Octavia sobs. The vibroblade she's holding up so valiantly begins to waver, and Jasper feels ice constrict his heart. "Why are you - why won't you get out of my head?"

"You're strong with the Force," Queen Nia says, nearly purring as she prowls around Octavia. "Strong, and wild, and untainted by the Jedi. You remind me of someone."

"No," Octavia says. "I'm - I'm no one. Just a pirate."

"I know you, Octavia Skyripper," Nia says tenderly. "I know how lonely you've been, all your life. All that power you shoved down and locked away. Always hiding, always making yourself smaller for other people..."

"It was dangerous," Octavia cries out. "If I showed it - if the Jedi - "

"You traded one prison for another," Nia snarls, and her face immediately melts back into a calmer, almost motherly expression. "Come with me, little _Skyripper_. I see who you could be. I could make you strong. You'll never have to hide again, not from the Jedi, not from your brother..."

"My brother loves me." Octavia's voice is getting weaker. Jasper quietly gropes along the floor for his blaster rifle. He drags it closer as quickly as he dares, trying to keep quiet, trying to focus through the pained fog in his head. 

"He loves you, and he's afraid of you," Nia says. "He kept you hidden. He smuggled you away from your home, told you the only life you were worth living was that of a pirate, fighting meaningless battles, getting just enough money to eat..."

 _We like being pirates_ , Jasper thinks blearily, indignant despite the throbbing in his head. He shifts his weight and balances the blaster rifle at a better angle. He tries to look through it, and his vision swims violently. 

"Be my apprentice," Nia says, trailing her blue hand along Octavia's trembling jaw. "Bow down for me, and I will make you in my image. You can make the Jedi pay. We'll make a universe where you never have to hide."

 _Don't like that_ , Jasper thinks. He takes a deep breath and brings his eye to the scope again. He still has to fight nausea, but he finds the sparkle of Nia's crown in the scope and centers the crosshairs just below that as best as he can. He takes another deep breath, and another. A single good shot is better than three bad ones. The blood rushes in his ears. His head throbs. They're not ideal circumstances, but he has to be good enough. He has to, because Octavia's sword is shakily lowering in her grip. 

He pulls the trigger.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT’S UNDERWORLD**

 

ALI-E2 whistles inquisitively as Raven unlocks a garage door in a deserted warehouse district.

“Yeah, yeah,” Raven says, ushering the little droid in with her foot. It’s sometimes a little hard to judge the strength of her prosthetic leg and in her nervousness she gives ALI a more powerful shove than she intended. “Sorry!” Raven says, and ducks under the half-open door. She half-kneels, her prosthetic leg stuck out to the side since it doesn’t bend the same way, and it quickly locks the door again. “It’s not a good alleyway to linger in. Don’t short your circuits at me.”

ALI turns her floodlight on and sweeps a white beam over the darkened garage. She chirps excitedly at Raven as the floodlight’s path reveals a massive shape hunkered over their heads.

“Yeah, I know,” Raven says, smiling despite herself. “Go turn on the lights and then come back to me, I’ll give you a tour. We have to move quick.”

She limps forward, her toolbag heavy and unwieldly at her back. Something in it has been digging into her ribcage the whole way here – she’s glad to finally dump it on the ground. The garage’s lights flicker valiantly and then remain on. Raven’s starfighter – the one she’s built practically from scratch – stands proudly in its glow. Raven takes a moment to exhale at the sight of it, willing her brain to enter the _zone_ , the calm trance she gets into when she’s faced with a problem she knows the solution to. The ship is almost done. Raven knows what’s missing, and she has ALI with her now to help her figure out what they can live without.

ALI returns with a squeal and runs over her foot.

“All right,” Raven says, covering up her wince and clapping her hands together. “Here’s what we’re working with. There’s still some wiring left to finish in the strike foils, gotta fix that and reattach the panels so we don’t burn up on our way out of atmo. We have no chance of finishing the proton torpedo in time, but hopefully we won’t need it today. I have a twin ion engine setup, I want you to take a look at it and see if there’s any shortcuts we can take. I’ve barely done any work on the life support systems, but as long as there’s air flow into the cabin that’ll be good enough for now.”

ALI makes a worried cooing sound. Raven grinds her teeth together.

“Yeah,” she says, quieter this time. “I know. It’s a lot of work and we don’t have enough time. So give it a scan and tell me the bare minimum that we have to do to get her flying in the air without killing me instantly.”

ALI whistles.

“Please,” Raven says, resting her hand on the astromech’s chassis. “I have to get to Arkadia. Zeke won’t answer and I have no idea what’s going on. My friends could be in danger – I _have_ to help.”

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Shumway wakes up to the cold sensation of a blaster barrel pressing into the center of his forehead.

He blinks blearily, his eyes crossed as he tries to make sense of the weapon so close to his face. A few seconds ago he was dreaming of his mother's custard cakes laid out on a red plaid tablecloth and - Then reality reasserts itself with the force of a rampaging bantha. Shumway sits up in his chair, his pulse racing, his gaze darting about to gather information about where he's woken up, but wait, he recognizes this room, with the arched doorway leading to the rest of the palace, the heavy iron door on his other side that blocks the path to the prison. He's at his station, seated in the same chair he's been sitting in since the invasion. He must have fallen asleep during guard duty - it's boring stuff, he thought he'd be doing something more glamorous by now.

Shumway's gaze follows the hand holding the blaster to his head up the arm to the impassive face looking down at him. It takes him a moment to place it. The last time he saw the young Senator of Arkadia, he was dressed in beautiful robes and looked like he'd had a shower sometime in the last few days. The man staring him down now has stubble darkening his stubborn jaw and dirt streaked through his hair and combat fatigues. There's something a little wild, a touch feral in his eyes. It makes Shumway uneasy. The man behind Senator Blake, glaring and shifting his attention between Shumway and the open doorway - that's Captain Miller. He hasn't seen the blonde girl with the cold steel-blue eyes standing on his other side before, but he's not an idiot. He can see the infamous brown robes and the metal hilt she's holding. People like to kiss the ground Jedi walk on, in Shumway's experience, but if he had to guess she's barely out of her teens. A kid. A squadron of kids, actually, playing at war. He doesn't recognize the other soldier accompanying Senator Blake, but underneath the blood and dirt he doesn't look particularly old either.

"You seem rather comfortable in an Azgedan-occupied palace," Senator Blake says. The rim of the blaster barrel presses harder into Shumway's forehead. It's growing warmer to the touch, slowly but surely. Shumway is not a fan of situations that lead to blasters held to his face long enough to leech body heat. Blake's eyes narrow. "A little too comfortable."

Shumway takes a shaky breath in. His chin is damp and cold, and with a rush of shame he realizes he started drooling in his sleep. He wants to wipe the evidence away, but the look in Blake's eyes is scaring him. Shumway thinks he might get a blaster bolt to the skull if he raises his hand up, so he sits perfectly still, feeling the drying saliva on his chin as he scrambles for something to say. 

"I'm so glad you're here," Shumway says after a brief, scattered second. He doesn't have to fake the desperation in his voice. Behind Blake, Captain Miller's eyebrows attempt to climb off his forehead. Shumway's tongue feels dry in his mouth. The blaster pressed against his head still doesn't waver. "I - Azgeda - you don't know what it was like. They threatened me - they threatened my family - "

The Jedi girl frowns and takes a half-step forward, her shoulder brushing up against Blake's. Shumway holds his breath. Blake's eyes glance sideways just long enough to see her expression, and Shumway thinks to himself that he should be taking advantage of that moment of distraction, should knock his blaster away or something - but then Blake's attention returns firmly to him, and Shumway remembers that there's two other blasters he'd have to go up against, and whatever uncanny wizard powers the Jedi girl has.

"And you want me to believe those threats were strong enough that they'd leave you to guard the prison alone?" Blake says dryly. 

"Yes," Shumway insists. He gulps around the rock that has settled in the base of his throat. "I am loyal only to Arkadia - "

"Lying," the Jedi says coolly. Shumway grimaces at her. 

"I am not - " he says, but she's already laid a hand on Blake's arm, gently pushing him aside. 

"Let me try," she says, and before Shumway can do something, before he can figure a way out of this predicament, she waves her hand in front of his face and things go hazy. 

"You _will not_ contact Azgeda," she says in a voice that makes all the tension melt out of Shumway's shoulders. His eyelids droop as he relaxes. Now that he thinks about it, the Jedi girl's face looks friendly and inviting. The blasters, the dirt - it's all a misunderstanding. 

"I will not contact Azgeda," Shumway dreamily agrees. He doesn't want to upset his new friend. His hands fumble at his collar for the comm clipped to it, the one the soldiers gave to him. He tugs it loose and drops it into Blake's hand. Azgeda promised him a cut of the profits from the invasion, enough to erase his debts. Glory. A new start on a new planet after all this, where he didn't have to work his way up a ladder by scraping and groveling like a glorified hound. Suddenly, all of that pales in comparison to friendship. The Jedi girl and her companions are his friends, and she has very good suggestions. 

"I know you don't like me doing this, but it's safer for us, and kinder than just shooting him," the Jedi mutters to Blake. The Senator gives her a pained, complicated look whose meaning rolls off of Shumway's lethargic calm like marbles off glass. "You _will_ let us into the dungeons," the Jedi continues, and Shumway stands up, feeling as light and airy as a cloud. Captain Miller glowers at him as he glides past him towards the control panel next to the door, but Shumway thinks that's just his face.

"I will let you into the dungeons," Shumway repeats, and he presses his hand to the console and placidly keys in the entry code to confirm his fingerprints. The iron door unlocks and swings open with a creak. 

"Are there any more guards inside?" Captain Miller asks him, adjusting the heavy-looking blaster in his arms. Shumway looks at it and feels something tickle the back of his mind. He has the hazy sensation that he's forgotten something, something important. Maybe related to the blaster. Was he supposed to take it from Captain Miller? His mother used to take guests' coats as they came in to visit.

"I don't think he's got all his mental faculties right now," the Jedi whispers with a wince. Shumway tries to smile vaguely at her, unhappy that she's unhappy, but it doesn't seem to make her feel better. She straightens up and sighs. "You _will_ lead us to the prisoners," she says, so Shumway strolls through the open door and down the staircase. 

The air grows cold and damp almost immediately as they descend underground. Shumway's chin feels cold. His mind tickles again. He's definitely forgetting something. He muses on it as the party of dirty, angry teenagers follows him down a long row of cells. He pauses in front of the first occupied door. Inside, two tattered shapes sit up and pay attention. 

"Who the fuck are you?" a low, hoarse voice comes from inside. 

"Careful," Captain Miller says, stepping between the cell door and Senator Blake, when Blake tries to get a closer door. Shumway thinks that's stupid. It's not like the prisoners are armed. They're in prison, and prison is secure. It's guarded. No one goes in or out. Who guards it? They're inside now. Not as inside as they could be. They could be in a cell. They are standing in the hallway between cells. Should they be here? If he's here, who is guarding the prison?

"Who are _you_?" the Jedi asks, squinting into the darkness. A young man comes creeping out of the shadows. No, another teenager. Shumway is the only adult supervision around. The prisoner is even dirtier than the Jedi and her friends. His long brown hair hangs in clumps over his forehead, shielding wideset green eyes. 

"Captain Murphy," the prisoner says grudgingly. A girl with crescent-shaped tattoos steps into the light next to him. "And my associate, Captain Emori. You've heard of us, obviously."

Shumway blinks. More Captains, like Miller? They're really lowering the hiring standards. 

"Hmm, no, can't say I have," the Jedi says. 

"They're not from any branch of Arkadia's guard that I know," Captain Miller says.

"We're not Arkadian captains," Murphy snaps, like he's embarrassed he has to explain this to Miller. "We're captains of a _ship_. Our ship."

"You don't look like you're supposed to be here," Emori says cheerfully. Shumway shakes his head violently. That feeling is coming back, and he doesn't like it, wants it gone. The sensation of pressure at the nape of his neck, between his temples. "Are you doing a jailbreak? Can we come?"

"What are you in jail for?" Blake asks suspiciously. 

"Got caught trying to smuggle food," Murphy says, tucking his bruised and bandaged knuckles into barely intact pockets, like he casually holds conversations in dungeons all the time. "Into Arkadia, I mean. We had a lot of food, figured you guys would like some."

"We knew it was stupid, but the profit margins were too good to resist," Emori says.

"You were trying to make money off of my starving people?" Blake asks, a bite behind his words.

"Capitalism, baby," Murphy says, spreading his arms wide and looking completely unperturbed by Blake's disapproval. 

"Let us out and I'll tell you where they took Prince Charming," Emori says in a sing-song voice. Shumway suddenly feels shame, but he doesn't know why. 

"Fine," the Jedi says, and turns back to Shumway. "You _will_ unlock this cell."

"I will unlock this cell," he says, relieved to have something else to concentrate on. He presses his palm to the lock and steps back as it clicks. The dirty smugglers tumble out with a burning conviction in their eyes. 

"What about the Jedi?" the young blonde Jedi asks. "She's a Togruta, this tall - "

"Not sure she's still alive," Murphy says. "She's been pretty quiet for a few hours." He points to the back of the dungeon, and the Jedi doesn't wait for him to say anything else before sprinting forwards. On Shumway's other side, Emori examines a familiar blaster with interest, bracing the barrel against a massive metal hand while the other deftly opens compartments and checks the grip. 

"Not bad," she says, nodding to herself before tucking it into the sash wrapped around her waist. Shumway thinks it might be his blaster. He looks down and finds his holster empty. He thinks he should be upset about that, but it's hard to grasp that emotion right now. 

At the end of the hallway, the Jedi ignites the bright blue beam of her lightsaber and cuts through the bars to the cell door. Something inside Shumway's mind flickers and replaces the colour with red. He feels a cold unrelated to the temperature of the prison, and the feeling of pressure on his mind gets worse. He allows himself to be carried along by the flow of people as they follow the Jedi down, Blake leading the pack. The Senator stops and hovers at the still-smoking cell door, like the red-hot glow of metal slowly cooling marks a boundary he can't cross. Inside the cell, the blonde Jedi shakes a prone form and Blake stares at her with tortured intensity.

"Anya," she says. "Master Anya, please, wake up."

"Is she..." Blake's muddy soldier whispers. 

The body stirs weakly. A single orange hand reaches out of its tattered robes and shakily brushes the blonde Jedi's cheek. 

"Clarke..." the body says, and the little Jedi collapses in relief, her face buried in the space between the Togruta's striped montrals and her neck. A stream of unidentifiable words, deeply muffled, follows. The little Jedi's shoulders shake with emotion, but she sits up as her Master pushes at her shoulder. "We have to hurry," Anya says, her voice sounding a little stronger. "She took Wells away, I don't know where - "

"Captain Emori knows," Blake says, with a sideways glance at her. "Apparently."

Emori raises her hands in the air and shrugs sheepishly. 

"Okay, I lied a bit, I don't _know_ for sure," she says, "But I can make an educated guess. The Sith lady is a bit of a drama queen. I'm just saying, if I had control of a palace and a whole planet of people I wanted to subjugate, and someone mounted a rescue mission, I'd want to ruin their plans somewhere really dramatic. I'd want to make a point."

"So?" Miller demands. 

"So," Emori says, rolling her eyes. "She knows you're not going to leave without your prince. She's waiting for you to come in through the front door."

"Are you strong enough to go?" Clarke asks her Master, who waves her off. Shumway thinks the concern is valid. The Jedi Master lost an arm in the invasion, dueling the Azgedan warrior who crept in shadows and slaughtered two-thirds of the Royal Guard with a blur of humming crimson before they could raise their blasters. 

"I have to be," Anya says, standing up with Clarke's help. She limps forward a few steps, her painted face set with fierce determination, before her eyes land on Shumway. "He stays here," she says coldly. "He opened the door for Azgeda." Her remaining hand raises and passes in front of Shumway's eyes. "You _will_ open one of these cells and lock yourself in," she says. "And you will sit there and think about your choices while your planet burns around you."

"I will open one of these cells and lock myself in," Shumway agrees pleasantly, immediately turning around and doing so. The door swings shut behind him, and Shumway's knees give out and dump him on the cold, wet floor. The sound of hurried footsteps and arguments in favour of certain tactical approaches fades away. A moment later, he hears the distant thud of the heavy iron door of the prison closing and leaving him alone. "I will sit here and think about my choices while my planet burns around me," Shumway repeats. Slowly, he wakes up from the dream as the Jedi's influence fades. But by the nightmare becomes real there is no one left in the dungeons to hear him yelling to be let out.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

The binders around Wells’ wrists make his shoulders ache. The seat he’s been bound to is too wide, and he winces as he tries to adjust his elbows so the arms cuffed around its backrest are not held at such a painful angle.

The Sith apprentice across the table from him pays no attention to his discomfort. She stares intently at the circular board between them, her gaze darting between her Monnok piece and the center of the concentric circles that make up the board.

“There’s no way out of that fork,” she says. “Maybe if you’d moved the Ng’ok to defend instead of the Grimtaash, but oh well. I thought you said you were _good_ at this.”

“I beat my father at it a few times,” Wells says mildly. The Sith ignores him.

“Move the Ng’ok into my Houjix’s range,” she urges, smiling a smile with too many teeth. “I promise its death will be swift.”

“Grimtaash to second ring, third space,” Wells says instead, and the Sith hisses her disappointment. She does, however, pick up his piece and put it in the right place. “Grimtaash stuns your Monnok.”

“What?” she says, rearing back into her seat, her blue face flushing navy with anger. “ _No_.”

Her eyes narrow. Wells has not forgotten the binders on his wrists or the casual cruelty of his captivity or the gleeful look on her face when she realized she’d amputated Master Anya’s arm in their duel. He did not forget at any point – she has not allowed him to. But he raises his chin and meets her gaze and does not let his eyes look down at the lightsaber clipped to her belt. The same lightsaber that maimed Master Anya and cut down the majority of his royal guard in a crimson whirlwind.

“You are afraid,” the Sith spits. “I can feel it. I am not a politician you can _trick_ , little prince.”

“I am afraid, yes,” Wells says honestly. “But we are not done the game. Your Monnok is stunned for two turns. Your move.”

The Sith huffs in disgust and picks up her Houjix. Wells’ Ng’ok piece clatters off the board and onto the stone tiles at their feet.

“One turn,” she says. “I suppose now you’ll kill the Monnok?”

“No. Grimtaash to second ring, fourth space,” Wells says, and the Sith’s narrowed eyes scan the board as she nudges his piece closer to her side. “It attacks your Ng’ok.”

“That’s stupid,” the Sith says, unceremoniously tossing her Ng’ok piece over her shoulder. “Now the Monnok is unstunned, and it kills your Grimtaash.”

“It’s not unstunned until the end of your turn,” Wells reminds her. “Two _full_ turns. Put my Grimtaash back and move something else.”

The Sith mutters an acidic curse about his mother’s eyebrows, but replaces the Grimtaash and sends her Houjix forward instead.

“Kintan Strider to second ring, first place,” Wells says quietly. He watches realization dawn on her face as she mentally traces through the inevitable trajectory of the game. “Kintan Strider kills your Houjix. Your Savrip kills the Strider. My Grimtaash kills the Monnok, and no matter how you move the Savrip, my Grimtaash stuns it. I win.”

“You call that a victory?” the Sith snarls. “Sacrificing everything?”

“Rules of the game,” Wells says. He was on the opposite side of this exchange with his father so many times. “It was worth the sacrifice to take out your pawns.”

The Sith screams, and the red lightsaber blazes to life. Wells barely has time to flinch and press his body to the back of his chair as the lightsaber hums right past his face, slashing the dejarik board between them to shards. The pieces tumble away. The scorched remains of the table smoke as she leans forward. The Sith twirls her lightsaber into a reverse grip and holds the humming blade centimeters from his throat. His arms ache with the angle he's holding them at to try to lean away from her.

"No more games, little prince,” she whispers. The scars on her face stretch as she gives him a grim smile. “If your friends don't come for you soon, I'm going to kill you anyway."

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Anya follows her Padawan through the palace, taking small, tight breaths even when they break into a run to avoid jarring her ribs. _Two broken_ , she thinks, _maybe a few more cracked._ She's out of breath before they get to the palace's front hall. The front doors are beautiful, ornate things standing two stories tall, both thrown open to let the light in.

Standing in the center like a wraith framed in a painting, on the front steps of the palace, is the Sith apprentice. Next to her, handcuffed to a chair that's a mockery of a throne, is Prince Wells. The remains of a destroyed dejarik board smolder between them. Anya raises her head as she smells a faint breeze, the first she's tasted in weeks. She reaches out with her remaining hand and wills the Force to return the lightsaber hanging on the Sith's belt like a stolen trophy. It flies back to her hand with little resistance. The Sith's tattered black robes flutter with the breeze as she realizes the party has arrived from behind, from within the palace, instead of from outside. She whirls to face them with her teeth bared in a cruel smile. 

At Anya's side, Clarke takes a sharp breath at the sight of the Sith's face. The apprentice is Azgeda through and through, her skin a frosty sky-blue underneath the white paint and the inflamed scars. She fights like Azgeda too, brutal and unyielding, delighting in the destruction of things more than the result. 

"I didn't think you'd be getting up any time soon," she says to Anya with a self-satisfied smirk. "Guess you're not as weak as I thought, _Jedi_. And you brought your Padawan, too! We weren't properly introduced on Coruscant, were we, Clarke? You didn't even ask my name. You kept trying to stab me."

"You _really_ deserved it!" Clarke retorts. 

"Oh, you didn't train her very well, did you, Anya?" the Sith asks with faux concern. "Look at all that  _emotion_ pouring off her. Clarke, sweetheart, are you sure you're on the right side?"

" _Ontari_ ," Anya says with a snarl. "Where's your Master?"

"She's got more important places to be," Ontari says, grinning.

Wells jerks his wrists against the cuffs keeping his arms bound behind the chair, half-twisted to look at them over his shoulder. Ontari jerks her hand, almost lazily, and the chair spins around to face them.

"Clarke," he says with a gasp. "Bellamy, _run_. Please just go!"

"Not a chance," Bellamy says, his blaster in one hand and a short vibroblade in the other. Between them, Clarke looks similarly determined. Anya can feel her in the Force like a taut bowstring. She wants to shake her head. They're aimed at the wrong enemy. This is - a distraction. A dot on the unceasing, twisting timeline of the galaxy, and there's an invisible hand behind it. That's where Anya really needs to strike, but the Force is cloudy and troubled around them. Something like dread creeps into Anya. 

Ontari's lightsaber blazes to life, blood-red and buzzing dangerously.

Anya was given to the Jedi Order so young that she doesn't remember her parents. Doesn't even have a last name to carry. The Jedi are all Anya has ever known, and she has been a dutiful student. When they told her to let go of her feelings, she did. So when Ontari doesn't immediately leap forward to attack them, Anya feels genuine fear for the first time in her life.

And she doesn't know what to do with it.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Up in the skies, Monroe cruises through cloud cover and keeps a careful eye on her instruments. Her heart has lodged in her throat since liftoff, and she doesn't think it'll return to its proper place in her chest until the evacuation is complete. 

She reaches for her comms. 

"Alpha 2, this is Alpha 3," she says, and waits for the line to crackle. A heartbeat later Harper answers her. 

"Standing by," she says. Monroe knows her well enough to recognize the hitch in her voice, the barest tremble. Harper is terrified. They've seen enough, they've been through enough together. Monroe doesn't blame Harper for wanting the war to end, for being willing to leave it behind and try to start anew on new lands. Honestly, she's having more trouble understanding why she's _not_ willing. Maybe it would be easier if she were flying a little lower, without the clouds hiding her. Maybe it would be easier to say goodbye if she could see her planet's rolling hills and ceaseless forests beneath her one last time.

She takes a deep breath.

"Alpha 2, skies are as clear as they're gonna get," Monroe says. "If we're gonna make a run for it, now's the time."

"Copy that, Alpha 3," Harper says shakily. "Return to formation, protect our starboard flank."

Monroe frowns. Harper sounds ready to cry. 

"Roll call, anyone else on the line?" she asks. Static. 

"Just me," Harper says. "I mean. Just Alpha 2."

Monroe exhales roughly, and nudges her starfighter into a gentle dive. Clouds stream past. It's a feeling like nothing else in the universe. 

"Harper," Monroe says. "Arkadia is a people, more than it is a planet. We've still got each other."

The comms crackle as Harper makes a weak, breathy laugh into her receiver. 

"Copy that," she says, and Monroe imagines her bent over her comms, making last minute preparations for the evacuation, giving the empty air in front of her a watery smile. Pride and affection swells in her ribcage, and something in her finally relaxes. She can breathe again. Her heart's returned home.

Monroe breaks cloud cover, and the landscape below her windshield is not what she remembers it being. Arkadia is wounded, a graveyard without tombstones, no bodies to lay in the gaping holes the Eligius miners have drilled into it. These are not the eternal forests of her childhood. This is not the planet she learned to fly above, not anymore. She shakes her head in pity and stakes a course for the rebel camp. 

The shuttle ship, their largest vessel, rises ponderously above the tree canopy. The meagre fleet of starfighters that Monroe has to protect it dart around it, taking up formations above and on either side of it. The shuttle is slow and unwieldy, unarmed, rusty, held together by duct tape and prayer. It's all they've got. Monroe can only hope that her starfighters prove enough of a distraction to the ships that Azgeda will no doubt send after them, and that the shuttle's aging shields hold against fire.

"Alpha squadron, check your radar," Monroe says, switching to the comm line shared with the other starfighters. She tunes out the flurry of confirmations she gets, her attention diverted as she searches the skies herself, only listening out for danger.

She runs on muscle memory as the shuttle slowly rises into the sky. Monroe checks altitudes and windspeeds and flight paths, even if only to confirm her astromech's calculations, just to have something to do. She does not look back at the pockmarked landscape of her home planet. It's not enough to say the words to Harper. She has to believe them herself.

They break atmosphere and there it is - Azgeda's blockade permanently parked in orbit. The shark-nosed battleships blow fuel out their side thrusters until they swing the sharp edge of their prow towards the rebel fleet, like compasses pointing North, like the creatures they resemble tasting blood in the water. Monroe smiles the reckless, terrible smile that almost got her kicked out of flight school as tiny fighters drop out of the belly of the battleships.

"Alpha 2, plot your hyperdrive course," she says calmly. "Alpha Squadron will buy you time."

And then she surges forward, meeting red laser bolts with her green. Time doesn't pass like it does usually in a fight. It could be hours, or it could be mere minutes later when Harper returns on the comms. Monroe has shot down nine of Azgeda's agile little fighters. She has barely avoided her own end in a fiery burst four times. The scope of her life has narrowed down to this battle. 

"Alpha 3, there's too many," Harper says, her voice frantic and furious. Monroe bites her lip. 

"Not good enough," she says. "Find another path."

"That battleship up ahead," Harper says. "Can you get rid of that?"

Monroe pulls out of a deep dive to avoid the tracking lock of an Azgedan fighter and traces a line from the shuttle's prow forwards. Harper's right, there's a battleship moving in to intercept the shuttle, too close for a safe entrance into hyperspace. She licks her dry lips, suddenly feeling parched.

"Alpha 2," she begins, and her voice cracks. She shoots at an Azgedan fighter that strays too close to her and tries again. "Alpha 2, I can knock it off course. But I won't see you on the other side."

"No," Harper's reply comes immediately. Monroe's hand tightens on the joystick she has shoved as far as it will go. Her fighter picks up speed. "No, Monroe, don't do it."

"It's worth it," Monroe whispers as the great bulk of the battleship comes up in front of her. "Plot the course, be ready. It's okay."

"Monroe, _no!_ "

"It's okay," she whispers, a promise. "Safe passage. It's going to be okay."

A tear rolls down her cheek, and her world ends in fire.

 

 

 

 

 

**UNDERNEATH ARKADIA**

 

The blaster bolt freezes in midair, still humming with energy even as it's trapped at a fixed point just before Queen Nia's head. She turns her head to look at it slowly, almost incredulously, and Jasper's mouth goes dry as he watches her trace a line along the length of its comet trail to its origin point. The gun in Jasper's hands. She flicks her hand, and the blaster bolt goes shooting off in another direction, leaving a scorch mark on a meaningless wall. Her eyes don't leave him.

Jasper stops breathing of its own volition, just from the fear her glowing golden eyes strike in him. He doesn't realize that he couldn't breathe even if he wanted to until he's being dragged to his feet by an invisible grip around his throat, as solid and unyielding as iron. The blaster drops out of his trembling hands as he scrambles at thin air, trying to fight against a Force he has no control over. The chokehold keeps raising him up. He stands on his tiptoes to stay in contact with the floor and she just lifts him higher until his feet kick helplessly at the air. 

"Stop," Octavia says. Her eyes are shining with tears, her face twisted in a grimace like she feels his pain. Maybe she does. Jasper doesn't know shit about the Force. He doesn't know. He never asked. Octavia didn't like to talk about it, so he never asked, and now he wishes he did, because he feels like he has the right to know about the thing that's being used to kill him. His vision, already blurry from the hard knock to his head, starts to bleed black at the edges. "Stop, please, put him down. I'll be your apprentice."

The chokehold on his throat relaxes just enough for him to take a small, gasping breath in, even though he's still dangling above the floor. He doesn't have enough air to tell Octavia not to do this, but he tries anyway. There's no way she doesn't get the message, not when he's making very spirited thumbs down gestures with both hands to make up for the lack of voice in his throat.

Queen Nia turns her attention back to Octavia with interest. 

"If you leave Arkadia and all its people alone, I'll be your apprentice," Octavia repeats tiredly. To Jasper, she looks simultaneously very old, and far, far younger than she was when he joined her crew. He emphasizes his thumbs down with renewed vigor and kicks harder at the air like it'll help. "Jasper too," she says, sounding light-years away. "You have to let him go."

He may as well be a wall decoration, for all Nia looks at him. Her eyes, golden and feverbright, bore into Octavia with a terrifying delight. She considers the offer for a moment as Jasper still struggles for the tiny gasps of air the chokehold allows him. Then she smiles, slowly at first, and then more, a mockery of a kind and motherly expression. 

"Kneel," Nia says. 

"Eligius has to stop drilling, too," Octavia insists. "Promise."

"Fine," Nia says, waving her hand dismissively. "I have enough rhydonium for my plans already. Now,  _kneel._ "

And to Jasper's numb horror, Octavia does. Jasper is dropped to his hands and feet with no ceremony. He coughs violently and gulps down air with greed, his eyes watering as it scrapes on the way down his throat. 

"Octavia," he croaks. "This is so stupid. Seriously. Don't do this."

She looks at him like she's already lost the war.

"Don't test my patience, child. Get out before I decided to kill you anyway," Nia says dismissively. She traces the back of her knuckles up Octavia's cheeks, brushing her tears away, which makes Jasper think she's probably talking to him. He gropes for his blaster and scrambles to his feet. He stumbles twice on the way to the door, his head swimming, unable to look away from Nia's terrifying silhouette to the ground under his feet. 

He stops in the doorway, feels another rush of nausea at the sight of Mbege's body. Nia will leave him here, Jasper knows, and he doesn't deserve that, even though he was kind of an asshole when he was alive. No one deserves to be left behind like that, and maybe someone on the evacuation shuttle liked him even though he was an asshole. 

Jasper looks back at Nia. His knees are shaking really hard, knocking together. He still wants to throw up in a corner, but he came here for a reason. He came here to save lives. He decides to trust in the Force, not as a thing used to choke people in dark underground sewers, but the thing that makes Clarke sit down in a quiet corner of camp and meditate for hours on end. Something to believe in. Something that wants balance. Jasper wants to believe that the universe can enact justice. And on a day where so much has gone so wrong, he needs something to go right. He raises his blaster rifle up to his shoulder. Looking through the scope is just going to make him dizzier, so he doesn't.

"If you shoot that at me," Nia says in a bored voice, "I will redirect it into your forehead."

"Jasper, please," Octavia says, and he closes his eyes and prays she's begging for the same thing he is. He pulls the trigger. The shield generator in the corner of the room explodes into pieces.

And then he runs for his life.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT’S UNDERWORLD**

 

Raven yelps in pain as a live wire in her ship's hyperdrive routing shocks her for the third time in as many minutes. The throbbing pain on her hand makes her throw the soldering iron in frustration and it leaves a dent in the far metal panel. Raven groans loudly and rubs at her face with a greasy hand.

ALI pokes her head into the maintenance hatch with a series of concerned cooing sounds. 

"I  _know_ I'm supposed to cut the power first," Raven responds with a growl. "But then I won't know if I've made a mistake until it's done, and we don't have time to run proper pre-flight checks - "

A low whistle interrupts her. Raven glances up sharply. 

"What?" she asks. ALI reluctantly beeps. "No," Raven says, shaking her head. "Run the numbers again. I just need another hour to finish this and install the oxygenator. Change the route."

The screen on ALI's front displays a thoughtful emoji, then a sad one with an extended stream of beeps and chirps. Raven listens to the astromech's dire calculations with mounting horror. It takes the average starship three hours to fly from Coruscant to Arkadia via the main hyperspace route to the Arkadian system. It takes five hours to get there from the Azgedan system, but the Senate meeting ended over three hours ago already, and Raven's willing to bet Queen Nia didn't sit around deliberating whether or not to destroy Arkadia out of spite. Raven was counting on the time it takes to mobilize another fleet to finish the work on her ship, but ALI says that even with all the shortcuts they took they're still too late. 

"Then try something else," Raven snarls at ALI. "There has to be another route. Fly me past a sun for all I care. If it gets us there in time, it's good enough." ALI chirps in admonishment. "I don't give a  _float_ about the preservation protocol. I'm giving you permission to disable it. ALI,  _please_ , just get me to Arkadia in time."

She holds her breath as ALI runs another series of calculations. A moment later, ALI's screen flashes a crying emoji. Raven screams and punches the paneling next to the exposed circuit that shocked her. Pain blooms across her knuckles, and she clutches her arm to her chest and bursts into tears. 

"Finish the wiring," she tells ALI between sobs. She climbs out of the maintenance hatch to give the astromech room and angrily wipes tears away with her uninjured hand. ALI coos nervously. " _Finish it_ ," Raven growls. "We're ditching the oxygenator and leaving."

She wills herself to stop crying as she limps across her garage to the row of dusty tanks propped up against the far wall, but when she tries to suppress it, violent, angry hiccups punctuate her breathing and the tears just won't stop coming. Raven mutters a swear and blinks to clear her vision as she leans over to check the gauges on the tanks. ALI trills in confusion.

"I have a spacesuit," Raven explains, and with a groan she drags the first tank over to the starship's ramp. "And roughly four hours worth of oxygen in these spare tanks."

She sets the first tank in the cockpit's passenger seat and straightens up, panting. 

 _Four hours of air._ It's a one-way trip to Arkadia. But if they beat Azgeda back, Raven will have time to find more.  _We can still make it._

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

 _(Clarke is a child again, swimming in too-big robes and still unused to the weight of the Padawan braid that_ thwacks _her in the face when she turns her head too sharply._

_Anya intimidates her because she never smiles at Clarke, but she must like her at least a little bit, because she picked Clarke almost immediately after allowing her previous Padawan to take her trials. Clarke tries to remind herself of this as she turns the lightsaber hilt over in her hands, trying to find a comfortable place to grip it. Part of her wants to run back to the Halls of Healing, to Master Jackson's side, where she's sure of her skills._

_The first time she picked up a lightsaber was a fluke. She just hadn't known how to turn down a dare. She hadn't expected it to feel so_ right _, to sing, to resonate in the Force like something finally falling into place. She struggles to remember that feeling now as Anya strides towards her and takes up a starting pose on the training mats. Clarke tries to mirror it. Her mouth feels gross and dry with her nerves._

_"Your feet are too close together," Anya says, and knocks her over with a weak Force push. "You are unbalanced. Plant yourself in a wide stance.")_

 

Clarke crouches on the palace steps, her feet spread in a half-moon stance. She's older now, and the lightsaber blazes in her grip as easily as breathing. It feels good to have Anya back at her side, even if it's been a long time, even if she's learned to move without the assumption that her Master is protecting her back. 

Ontari's red lightsaber cuts a violent blur through the air. Her eyes glint cruelly. 

"I could have a lot of fun, killing you while your friend is forced to watch," Ontari says with a smile. Next to her, Wells fights against the bonds holding his wrists behind the chair's back.

"Clarke, just go," he says, and there's no way she can, not when she's close enough to see the colour of his brown eyes for the first time in months, not when she's riding the high of her reunion with Anya. Leaving Wells now is unthinkable. 

"But I could have more fun," Ontari continues, as her scarred smile widens. "Killing him while _you_ watch."

The meaning sinks in for Clarke, and dread punches all the air out of her lungs. 

 

_("Acknowledge your fear," Anya says as she easily bats away every one of Clarke's attempts to hit her with the dialed-down lightsaber she's been given at practice, with the promise that it's not powerful enough to detach her opponent's limbs. Even so, Clarke is holding back, afraid of it, afraid to keep her eyes open when Anya's lightsaber nears her head._

_"I_ am _acknowledging it!" Clarke bites out in frustration, side-stepping to stay out of Anya's reach._

 _"You are_ not _," Anya says, hitting Clarke's upper arm with her weakened lightsaber. The jolt that travels through her arm is still strong enough to make Clarke wince as her fingers go numb. "You are holding on to your fear. It's trapping you. Acknowledge it, and set it free."_

_And with another sweep of her leg, she knocks Clarke off her feet for the hundredth time that hour.)_

 

Of all of them, Bellamy reacts first, shooting a flurry of blaster bolts at Ontari that force her a step back, a step away from Wells. 

Anya reaches out and pushes with the Force, knocking Wells' chair sideways and out of Ontari's reach. Most of his weight lands on the arm that's bound on that side of the chair, and over the sound of her pulse hammering in her ears, Clarke hears it crack. She pushes aside the hurt and fury that rise up, and reminds herself that bones can heal. Wells' face is tight with pain but the arm doesn't stop him from wriggling furiously against the overturned chair.

"I'll get him, you block her," Anya says, and Clarke can only nod and throw herself forward. 

 

_(The longer Clarke goes without landing a single hit on Anya, the more her frustration builds, the more she thinks that maybe she was dreaming during that first lightsaber duel, the one that felt so perfect. She throws herself into memorizing Anya's katas with a burning ferocity, and it's still not enough._

_"You are thinking too hard," Anya says, the paint around her eyes creasing as she narrows them at Clarke. "You learn katas like a droid."_

_"Do you have a better idea?" Clarke snaps at her, and discipline is the only thing that reminds her to tack on an insincere_ Master _at the end._

_Anya finds a blindfold, which seems like the very opposite of a solution to thirteen year old Clarke._

_"Slow down. Stop trying to calculate where I'm going to be," Anya says as she knots the blindfold behind Clarke's head. Her hands are gentler than they've ever been. The fabric is thick and itchy, too dense to see through, and it makes Clarke want to sneeze. She tries to nudge it upwards and peek underneath through the gap it leaves between her nose and cheekbone, but Anya catches her immediately. "Just trust me. Trust the Force. Ask it where I am, right now, and strike there. Forget your katas."_

_Clarke waves her lightsaber blindly through the air and strikes nothing.)_

 

Ontari fights as relentlessly as she did back on Coruscant, on the balcony of 500 Republica. There's nowhere to fall, this time around, but Clarke isn't alone for the reprisal of their first duel. She weaves back and forth as Ontari swings, slowly but surely maneuvering around so Ontari is pinned between her lightsaber, and the blaster fire that the others lay down. 

All around her the Force holds its breath, teetering on a knife's edge between light and dark. Clarke miscalculates a strike, and Ontari gets enough room to aim the deflection of one of the blaster bolts she's been blocking. Later, they will wonder who fired the shot that ricochets into Atom's throat. Later, they will have time to mourn everyone lost. In the moment, Clarke just feels him go out in the Force like a candle forcibly extinguished and allows herself a tiny cry of dismay. Atom's death is a mistake she can learn from. She vaults high over Ontari to plant herself between the Sith apprentice and her allies. 

Clarke holds her spare hand out to the side, palm facing backwards, and knows Bellamy's understood when he tells the others to stand down, to stop firing. She knows he's kneeling next to Atom, checking if bacta's an option, if the hole in his throat is worth patching. She knows he's about to find out it's not. But in the moment, she can only keep meeting Ontari's strikes, even as her arms shake under the weight of their clashing lightsabers.

And then Anya's at her side, her presence warm and solid in the Force. Clarke lets out a shaky breath and lets herself believe that it will be okay in the end, that they will win, that the love and pride Anya feels for her will be enough to drive back the creeping, rotting darkness in Ontari. 

As Clarke and Anya fall into stance together, her face twists into a snarl, the edges of her mouth pulling on the pale scars on her cheeks. She calls for the Force with a clawed hand jerked to the side, and Clarke doesn't have time to react before her body is violently thrown into Anya's. They both fall to the stone in a tangle of limbs and lost footing. Clarke loses her grip on her lightsaber and she hears it turn off and clatter against the palace's steps. She sits up faster than Anya, who is struggling to wriggle out from underneath Clarke with only one arm to aid her, and her eyes immediately seek Ontari. 

The Sith apprentice is striding away, knocking people out of her way left and right. Bellamy and Miller are thrown to the side first as they run to block her, their blasters wrenched out of their hands by the Force and tossed down the palace steps. Clarke staggers to her feet and cries out a warning too late as Bellamy hits the palace doors and slumps to their base, limp. Miller falls out of view. The pirates they found in the dungeon are more cautious - Emori stands her ground and gets a long but shallow-looking gash from her hip to her chest for her trouble. Murphy abandons any defense against Ontari to run to her, and Ontari ignores him once he's kneeling beside his partner, frantically checking the wound. She's on a warpath to Wells, and nothing else matters. 

Clarke has known Wells as long as she's known herself. She's seen his face make every expression before. She's seen him laugh, she's seen his eyebrows furrow as he concentrates on a tricky dejarik board. She was there to see him cry at the funerals of both his parents. So she instantly recognizes the emotions that flash across his face like stars slipping past in hyperspace, all in the seconds before Ontari reaches him. Clarke is already running to them, even as she knows she won't get there in time. 

When the tip of the red lightsaber sinks into the center of Wells' chest, he's already made his peace with it. He doesn't even look at Ontari as it happens. He stares over her shoulder and meets Clarke's eyes. The blood roaring in her ears drowns out his whisper, but she reads his lips. _It's okay_ , he says, and then the pain hits and his mouth forms a pained 'o' and Clarke is too far away to stop it. 

In desperation she mimics the move Ontari used earlier, the Force-push, the jerk of her hand sloppy and undisciplined. The sheer strength she puts behind it makes Ontari stagger back several steps, and Clarke runs past her and collapses at Wells' side. He shakes his head and tries to form words, but there's nothing he could say to fix this. Wells' peace and diplomacy haven't saved his life, and neither did Clarke's violence. It wasn't enough. She wasn't enough. 

A hoarse cry of shock and pain makes her look up and meet Bellamy's eyes. He's struggling to stand, a hand pressed to his ribcage, his face twisted with familiar anguish. Clarke knows from the sheer horror in his eyes that Ontari is coming back for her. 

She doesn't move. She _can't_ move. 

 

_(Clarke is thirteen years old again, wearing an itchy blindfold, uncertain of the placement of her own feet, of Anya, even of the walls of the room she's in._

_"Just trust the Force," Anya says, her voice more soothing than it has ever been before, and Clarke reaches for the Force and finds it reaching back, finds it nudge her feet to fall in the right places, finds it brush against her back a second before Anya tries to strike there. But Anya's lightsaber is ready to knock aside every one of Clarke's increasingly frustrated attempts to score._

_Clarke breaks away from a clash of their lightsabers and wheezes for air, her hands shaking with impatience. She remains still for a heartbeat, listening for Anya's movements in the Force. And then she lunges, her lightsaber swinging in a long arc - and just before it meets Anya's block, Clarke's thumb twitches on the ignition switch, powering it down just long enough to pass through Anya's lightsaber. She lands the hit, but victory feels short. Anya rips her lightsaber out of her hands with the Force and a second later her hands tear Clarke's blindfold off. Her Master's eyes are wide and burning._

_"_ Never _," Anya hisses, "do that again. That move is incredibly dangerous. Most Jedi Masters won't use it."_

_"But I won," Clarke insists._

_"You will not win when we are using real lightsabers," Anya shoots back, furious, "and you have something to protect.")_

 

Wells is underneath her palms, looking at her, trying to breathe. She wants to tell him to stop, that every breath is drawing more air into his chest cavity and furthering the collapse of his lung. In her head Master Jackson's patient voice tells her that treatment includes calming the patient and drawing the air out with a syringe to reduce the pressure on the lung. Her hands hover over Wells' chest helplessly. She doesn't have a syringe. She can't reinflate a lung that's been pierced through. She can't mend a gaping hole in his body. Her lightsaber is gone, somewhere out of reach, abandoned when she made her desperate run to Wells' side.

"I'm sorry," Clarke tells him, and Wells blinks and smiles at her, slow and gentle. _I forgive you_ , it says. Even now, he's trying to comfort her. She shakes her head and chokes down the sob building in her throat. "No," she says. She looks at him helplessly even as she sees, reflected in his wide brown eyes, the terrible red blaze of Ontari's lightsaber as she raises it over her head to strike Clarke. "I was - I was supposed to protect you."

Clarke doesn't expect the Force-pull that violently yanks her out of the way of Ontari's descending lightsaber at the last minute. She skids to a stop several steps away from Wells and screams as Ontari's lightsaber scores a deep gouge in the steps where she was kneeling. Crimson sparks fly. Clarke feels Wells die in the Force, quietly, like a transmission signal gently fading out of range, there one moment and gone the next. 

"Please," she chokes out, tears blurring her vision. 

The universe does not listen, and neither does Anya. 

Her Master throws herself forward to defend Clarke, her lightsaber powered off at the last minute, abandoning all chance at a parry for either her or Ontari. The duel comes to a brutal end. Clarke hears a high, cracking scream as the red lightsaber erupts from Anya's back at the same time as her green blade ignites again and sinks through Ontari's stomach. The scream goes on and on and on, and Clarke realizes it's hers when she tries to take a deep breath and her throat feels like it's been flayed with razor-sharp whips. 

Ontari collapses first, her golden eyes distant and fanatic. The red lightsaber powers off, and Anya sways. She turns and staggers to Clarke. She has no air left to scream with at the sight of the hole Anya is trying to hide from her, the hole mirroring Wells'. Anya collapses, and Clarke's too dizzy with grief to catch her. They fall together, Anya clutching desperately at her robes, groping for her hand. She finds it and squeezes so hard Clarke feels her knuckles creak in protest. 

"Why did you do that?" Clarke sobs. "How could you make me lose both of you?"

Anya's eyes are distant and unfocused as she strokes Clarke's hair, her fingers brushing against the Padawan braid behind her ear.

"So strong," Anya murmurs. "So bright." She forces a weak, bloody smile. "Clarke - the Master. Tell the Order..."

"The Order isn't here," Clarke screams, her voice cracks. "The Order can _rot!_ They did nothing, it was just us - " _and we weren't good enough._

Anya doesn't answer. Later, Clarke will wonder if she even heard. Her eyes close and she slumps on her side, like she's fallen asleep. Clarke knows she hasn't. The Force does not lie. The Jedi told her that death is a natural part of the Force, both sacred and mundane, a reason for grief and celebration in equal measure. But nothing feels natural about the bodies scattered on the palace steps and the stench of the Dark side still lingering. Clarke buries her face in Anya's dirty, matted robes and screams herself hoarse.

 

_("You're just mad because I won," Clarke snaps at her Master. "You've been kicking my ass the entire time I've been your Padawan. You don't even like me!"_

_Anya levels her with her signature unreadable look._

_"Clarke," she says, her voice serious and gravely. "Two things. First, do not make me wash your mouth with soap. Second..." she trails off, and Clarke's skin itches under the intensity of her stare. "Do not ever make the mistake of thinking I don't care."_

_Clarke swallows hard. She suddenly feels very embarrassed._

_"You don't even smile at me," she says in a small voice. Anya blinks._

_"I am... not good at the smiling thing," she admits, the confession extracted from her as easily as a pulled tooth. "But I can promise you that I do not regret choosing to teach you. The Force tells me that I will be very proud of you - I already am.")_

 

Clarke is hollow. She doesn't look up as the rumble of engines shakes her bones and grows ear-splittingly loud. Hands close around her shoulders and force her upright - Miller's. There's nothing left in her to feel relief that he survived the fight. 

"Clarke, we have to go. Monty's here, come on," he says.

"Can't leave them," she says, her voice thick and distant, spoken from a throat that doesn't belong to her anymore. She fights his hands off weakly until he lets go of her and helps her lift Anya's body. Clarke could carry her with the Force, usually, but she doesn't even reach for it now. The strain in her muscles and the uncomfortable angle of her arms gives her something to focus on. Something to lay on the altar for her ghost.

Jasper stands on the lowered ramp of the Skyripper, reaching down to help them board as Monty struggles to keep the ship hovering in place long enough for everyone to clamber aboard with their morbid deliveries. His striped face goes a paler shade of red when he sees Anya's body, like he didn't think Jedi could die. Clarke lifts her up, ascertains herself of the gentle way he takes her weight in his arms, and turns back for Wells. 

Bellamy is already trying to carry him, even through a limp, even through whatever happened to his ribs earlier. He walks like he doesn't know where he's going, like he's not really looking, like he's just trying to put one foot in front of the other. Clarke can relate. A rush of grief as she reaches him and sees Wells' slack face tucked into Bellamy's shoulder threatens to bring her back to her knees. She helps Bellamy share the weight and doesn't look at either of their faces. 

Inside the cargo hold, Jasper and Murphy have already started laying out the bodies. Clarke and Bellamy set Wells down next to Anya, and it takes her a moment to realize Emori's chest is still rising and falling weakly. 

"Can you do something?" Murphy asks, his knuckles bone-white as he clutches her hand. Clarke stares at him a moment, the words processing slowly, slowly. It seems unfair that Emori is still breathing when her loved ones are not, that she took the lightsaber across her torso in a shallow cut instead of a fatal stab straight through. 

"Bacta," she tells Bellamy numbly, and her fingers close clumsily on the tube he gives her without another word. She crouches next to Emori, her back turned on the other corpses, trying to pretend that they're not lying still. _The Force is incapable of lying_ , she reminds herself. It hesitates to come to her command, like a loth-cat that knows it's been bad. She pushes through, her palms spread over the worst of Emori's wound, trying to coax the sluggish blood to congeal. Most of it's been cauterized by the lightsaber, but Clarke demands more until the flicker of Emori's soul in the Force grows brighter. 

"Where do we go?" Monty asks, sounding as hollow as Clarke feels. Out of the corner of her eye she can see him craning his neck over the shoulder of the captain's chair, the deep blue void of upper atmosphere visible beyond his silhouette. The shriek of Azgedan starfighters closing in on them makes all of them tense, but Monty's still watching them, gaze going from person to person, biting his lip. "Bellamy? Where should I jump?"

The Skyripper's crew has been all over the galaxy. They have pirate friends and smuggler's dens and lists of backwoods desert planets to hide on. Clarke doesn't know why he doesn't pick something himself, or why Octavia hasn't already chimed in. 

"Clarke?" Monty asks. She shrugs, attention fixed on Emori, on the one thing she can fix right now. Everything else is her mind is a distant scream she is trying to ignore. Azgeda's shark-nosed battleships hang huge in the sky, surrounded by the debris of everyone who didn't survive Harper's evacuation. And Clarke is numb to it all.

"Mandalore," Bellamy says, deciding for them, and all around stars blur into bright streaks as Monty makes the jump into hyperspace. And then, because the day hasn't gone badly enough for them, his head swivels around, searching the _Skyripper_ for his sister. "Jasper?" he asks, and Clarke can already hear the dawning horror in his voice. "Where are Octavia and Mbege?"

Jasper flinches.

"Mbege's dead. Octavia's gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" Bellamy asks. Jasper looks at the floor and doesn't answer. Bellamy stumbles to his feet, swaying heavily. "We have to go back for her. Monty, turn the ship around."

"I mean she's gone," Jasper says, his voice cracking. "I mean the Sith Master was waiting for us. She knew we'd come to the generator, she knew Octavia would be there. They made a deal."

"Why didn't you stop her?" Bellamy roars.

"She killed Mbege!"

"Bellamy," Clarke says, because Jasper is crying, silent sobs wracking his thin shoulders, and she knows Bellamy will regret his anger later. Her own eyes sting and her throat threatens to close up as he turns on her, his eyes wild and full of pain.

"Please," he begs. _Please be on my side. Back me up. Tell me we're going back._ Clarke looks away, unable to meet his gaze.

"It's over, Bellamy," she says quietly. "We lost."

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Glittering black robes trail up stone stairs. Queen Nia kneels at the top of the palace stairs, where the Force hangs heavy and full of pain. Full of _power_. A single body remains, left behind. Her blue hand traces her first apprentice's scarred face.

"A pity," she says, in a tone that does not quite match her words. "I invested a lot of time in Ontari. But at least this saves me the trouble of making you two duel."

She stands and looks at the teenager shaking at her heels, her arms wrapped around herself, her wide eyes fixed on Ontari's unseeing ones. Nia takes a step closer, her swishing robes blocking the sight of the body, and cups Octavia's cheek. She smiles down at her new charge. 

"She was never as strong in the Force as you," Nia says. "You, my girl, are a supernova. I will do great things with you."

Octavia says nothing. Her face is still splattered with the blood of that annoying boy from the sewers. Disgusting, that business. The  _things_ Nia does for progress. She licks her finger and starts rubbing the dried flecks of blood off. Octavia tries to flinch away so Nia freezes her in place. The girl's eyes are dark and baleful as Nia rubs the stubborn splatters away. 

"There, there," Nia says reassuringly. She releases her hold on Octavia and lets the girl stumble a step backwards. "Now take the lightsaber and let's go."

Anger flashes over Octavia's face. 

"I don't want someone's hand-me-downs," she says with contempt. "I want my own. If you're going to teach me, do it  _properly._ "

Nia narrows her eyes and makes a small adjustment in her measure of the spiteful little pirate. Then she smiles.

"Look at you," she says warmly, and Octavia recoils from the unexpected affection, confused and unsteady on her feet once again. "You're already doing so well, demanding what should be yours. Let's take you home." She wraps an arm around Octavia's shoulders and holds her close as they walk back down the stairs. Octavia is stiff at her side, but Nia knows that look in her eyes. The yearning. The hunger so ingrained that over the years it's gnawed away anything else. Oh, Nia has  _so much_ to teach her. 

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ARKADIA**

 

Only a few minutes later, a fleet that rivals the size of Azgeda's blockade emerges from hyperspace. The starcraft are smaller but more agile, their pilots well-taught, their hulls shiny and painted with stark geometric designs. On the bridge of the light cruiser at the front of the fleet, Kane stands at parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back. He takes in the debris field around the Azgedan ships with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Engage on your command, Admiral Sinclair," he says in a soft but determined voice. Sinclair nods curtly and calls out the opening maneuvers, sending his squadrons out in tight, cohesive packs. The Azgedan battleships release a fresh wave of small fighters in response. Mandalore's fleet takes them out with few losses. Silent explosions bloom on the hulls of the battleships as Sinclair's pilots hit their marks, but the Azgedan ships just slowly point their noses elsewhere, all following some unheard direction. 

Mere minutes after the halfhearted battle begins, the entire blockade vanishes into hyperspace into parts unknown, leaving only a scattered handful of fighters that were too damaged or strayed too far to tag along in the jump. Sinclair's face is grim as his pilots round up the stragglers. The entire bridge is silent as he and Kane stand at the cruiser's windows, looking out over a burning and abandoned Arkadia. There are no cheers of victory, no murmurs at all. The hush of a funeral has fallen over all the officers and technicians manning the cruiser's controls along them.

"Somehow," Sinclair says softly. "This doesn't feel like a victory."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this is the angstiest point. Everything after here is the slow uphill climb of grief+healing. Roma, Mbege, Monroe, Atom, Wells, and Anya: your fight is over yet again. :( Sorry.  
> Also RIP an au of this fic where the Lightbournes are the Sith instead. Season 6 you came too late. Fistbump to everyone who guessed Nia and/or Ontari, hope the reveal wasn't disappointing. Additional fistbumps to everyone who went back and forth over suspecting Octavia - that's the reaction I was hoping for.
> 
> Dejarik is like space chess, we see R2 and Chewbacca playing it at one point. There are rumours of canon instructions, but I did not get my hands on a copy so I made some up based on Wookiepedia's [vague](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Dejarik/Legends) [descriptions](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Dejarik/Legends). The [kintan strider death gambit](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Kintan_strider_death_gambit) is the only canon move that I could find. That whole Ontari/Wells scene was a last minute addition. We know the Jahas are into chess, so years and years ago I wrote a scene for another story where Wells plays chess against his father and unfortunately had to scrap it during edits, but I remain a Sucker for dramatic hero/villain chess matchups. 
> 
> The form that Clarke uses in a flashback with Anya that Anya also uses to kill Ontari is known as [tràkata](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Tr%C3%A0kata). When you're dueling with swords that you can like.... temporarily turn off to get past an opponent's defences... well, SOMEONE was gonna invent it eventually. 0/10 would not recommend.
> 
> A note on Octavia: I have done my best to be sensitive to readers who relate to her while incorporating her canonical behaviour and mindset. If you would like to message me privately on tumblr to talk about it for your own well-being, you are always welcome. If you just want to tell me I'm horrible and ruining your favourite character, I mean you _can_ but I will probably ignore you. The scene in chapter 6 where Clarke and Bellamy talk about Octavia injuring him during childhood Force-tantrums is probably a good measure for how the rest of this narrative will treat her character - both love and condemnation.
> 
> Now that we've reached the end of this arc I can say that I drew inspiration from Rogue One and [the Onderon arc](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Battle_of_Onderon) from The Clone Wars tv show, which I really highly recommend by the way. The Onderon arc specifically will make rewatching Rogue One extra painful.
> 
> I'm on tumblr as [kindclaws](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/), come by! Many of my longtime mutuals have distanced themselves from the show and I'd like to follow some more people, so feel free to mention your username in a comment especially if it is different from your ao3 name. Thanks for reading this far. 😬


	12. the dream is ended; this is the morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, had writer's/editor's block! Also, how 'bout dat Beliza marriage hmm? Here's some angst to balance out your palate. 
> 
> **CONTENT WARNINGS:** drinking to cope, a lot of hopeless spiraling thoughts, a little bit of people saying things they don't mean. Also, sex. And communal bathing, if anyone needs a heads up for that?

 

**HYPERSPACE, EN ROUTE TO ARKADIA**

 

"Two minutes," Raven says to the empty cockpit. It's a pointless reminder - there's no comms in hyperspace, and ALI-E2, snugly tucked into her port on the outside of the ship, is already preparing to exit hyperspace.

Raven looks away from the stars stream past her windshield to check the oxygen tank buckled into the seat next to her. Her numb fingers are clumsy as she fumbles for the guage. The spacesuit has kept her alive, but offers limited protection against the cold of space. The guage's needle hovers at the edge of the red zone - Raven's calculations didn't account for her breaking down sobbing halfway through the flight and taking deep, gasping breaths of her limited supply of air. This is the last tank left, and Raven has at most thirty minutes of it.

Thirty minutes to fight off Azgeda and find the rebellion. Or at least, a safe space to land.

"I can do this," Raven says with false confidence. Her hands shake. "I'm the youngest podrace champion in fifty-two years. Nothing can touch me."

Raven wraps her gloved hand around the throttle and gets ready to face whatever's waiting on the other side of hyperspace.

Alarms blare. Raven's ship comes out into realspace on the outskirts of a field of debris and she holds her breath as she dodges around it. There's - there's too much debris and not enough movement; an entire halo of destruction hangs suspended in orbit around Arkadia, abandoned and unforgiving. Below the debris field, pillars of smoke rise from a dozen sites on the planet's surface. Raven doesn't want to face what it means.

"No," Raven says softly. Her bottom lip trembles without permission and she bites down to make it stop, hard enough to draw blood.

She came prepared for a fight. She came with fury coursing through her veins and the taste of ozone in her mouth. She came to have a chance, to  _try._ She did not come prepared to be too late.

" _No!_ " Raven screams, drumming her fists down on the dashboard. The glass display cracks under her onslaught - a moment later, something in her hand does too. Raven clutches it to her chest and screams again, something quieter, wordless, broken. She slumps forward until the visor of her helmet _clinks_ against the dashboard. "No," she whispers. 

The comm crackles. 

"Unauthorized starcraft, identify yourself immediately. This area is restricted by the orders of the Duchess of Mandalore."

Raven raises her head dully. Three small starfighters speed towards her, having rounded the bulk of the planet between them. Raven's keen eyes immediately trace the two-pronged prow and the wing mounted laser cannons. Fang fighters, then - Mandalorian single-crew starfighters, renowned for their deadly grace in the air. Raven has always wanted to see one in real life, but - not like this. She reaches for the comms as if a stranger in her own body.

"My name is Raven Reyes," she says. She hates how small her voice suddenly sounds, how she feels like an abandoned little girl again. "I... I came for the rebellion."

 

 

 

 

 

**MANDALORE**

 

The _Skyripper_ shudders slightly as it drops out of hyperspace like a hulking animal shaking off the water of a river it's just crossed. Bellamy lies on the hard, thin bunk and keeps staring up at the bottom of the storage compartments over his head as the metal joints creak and grown in protest. They must have reached Mandalore by now, the dying planet looming large in the visor. He should get up. He should clean some of the blood off his face and prepare to ask hospitality of Clarke's mother. He should put on a confident front to the others, pretend there's a plan, pretend there's something worth fighting for after they've lost everything.

He can't move a muscle.

On the other side of the cabin, Miller lies curled on the second bunk, sleeping fitfully. Bellamy sort of wishes the drop out of hyperspace woke him up, because he'll feel bad doing it himself. Miller looks young and exhausted still. He only stumbled in a few hours ago, having sat close to Monty in the cockpit area until his thoughts settled, and Bellamy knows he needs more sleep. They all do. They only got a few hours last night before - before Octavia stumbled in, crying about the Sith stalking her dreams, before they ran headfirst into an impossible mission, before Bellamy lost everything.

Bellamy has his legs swung over the edge of the bunk and is standing before he realizes it. His hands are clenched into tight fists, his nails dug into the palm. He forces them to relax. He forces himself not to think about Octavia. About the perfectly round hole through Wells' chest.

His legs carry him out of the cabin, out into the main cargo area. Through the narrow corridor formed by the tied-down crates lining the walls he can see Monty in the cockpit, his head bowed over the ship's controls as he requests a landing site from Mandalorian traffic control. Jasper is slouched in his usual seat, his distinctive crown of horns poking out over the headrest. One of them is broken – Bellamy wonders when that happened. He thinks about going over. He thinks about asking Jasper to explain what happened down in the sewers for the third time, trying to make sense of it in his mind. He think about apologizing for yelling.

He doesn't.

He stumbles to the back, where someone's pulled spare blankets out of one of the crates and covered the three bodies they could recover. Roma and Mbege are still on Arkadia and Bellamy doubts Azgeda will give them any respect or rites. Emori lies at the end of the line, uncovered, her face lax and peaceful as she breathes weakly, Murphy curled near her.

Clarke is slumped against the wall, her head lulling on her shoulder as though her exhaustion overtook her before she could drag herself to one of the bunks. Bellamy feels a rush of melancholy affection for her, seeing the stubborn set of her shoulders, her eyelids fluttering as she dreams. He finds the crate with the blankets, its lid askance, and digs one out to tuck under her head, even though the _Skyripper_ tilts under his feet as Monty finds them a landing vector.

"You gonna tuck me into bed too, Senator?" a hoarse voice says behind him, making Bellamy jump a foot into the air.

Murphy is curled on his side around Emori's head, one of her hands clasped in both of his. Bellamy thought he was asleep too, but he peers up at him with one shrewd eye, the other hidden by the jacket balled up under his head.

"We're about to land," Bellamy says, hoping Murphy doesn't point out that he propped Clarke's head up anyway. His gaze shifts to Emori's waxen face. "She looks like she's doing better."

"She is," Murphy agrees, still peering up at Bellamy like he hasn't decided if he's friend or foe yet. It makes his skin prickle.

"Wouldn't want her to die and cut into your profits," Bellamy says cuttingly, still stinging from the casual way Murphy revealed he'd been planning to make money off Arkadians desperate for relief supplies. But when Murphy flinches and doesn't answer, Bellamy feels a wave of shame come over him. "Sorry," he mutters, and they both look studiously elsewhere until the _Skyripper_ rocks from side to side as it lands. Bellamy holds onto a nearby rail until the ship settles on its weight and the ramp begins to lower.

Miller comes out of the cabin, rubbing at his eyes with one hand even as he's holding up his blaster with the other. It hasn't sunk in for him yet that they're safe. They're _supposed_ to be safe here, at least. Bellamy's counting on the Duchess' love of her daughter and the allyship Kane showed him in the Senate.

Clarke keeps sleeping, even as Monty and Jasper join them in the cargo hold. Bellamy can't bring himself to wake her, but he doesn't want to leave her here, where the bodies stretched out underneath the dirty gray blankets will be the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. So he crouches down and carefully gathers her into his arms, the blanket-pillow falling away as her head lulls the other way onto his chest. His heart squeezes painfully as she winces in her sleep. He follows Miller down the ramp with small, steady steps, trying not to wake her.

The Mandalorian port has high ceilings and angled walls with intricate geometric designs on every surface. Most of the merchant ships docked nearby are clean and well-serviced, guarded by security wearing familiar T-faced Mandalorian helmets. There are even glass chandeliers scattering white light into tiny rainbows across the hangar. Inside the glass cities one could easily forget that outside, Mandalore is barren and ruined by war. Bellamy and his remaining companions are like stains on the pristine landscape, covered in mud and blood and haunted as they are. He resists the urge to hide from the horrified looks the hangar's inhabitants are sending their way.

A woman that must be the Duchess is already running towards them, her elegant blue and gold skirts hitched up in fists, an entourage of armoured guards jogging alongside her. She gets closer and Bellamy's mind starts to find the pieces of Clarke's face that he recognizes in hers.

"My daughter - " the Duchess gasps, her eyes wide with horror as she slows down, staring at the unmoving curve of Clarke's body in his arms.

"She's alive," Bellamy says quickly, and the Duchess closes the remaining distance between them in two steps, her hand coming up to smooth Clarke's hair back and cup her slack jaw. Her pale, manicured hand is a shock against the smear of blood on Clarke's face where Anya brushed her tears away. Bellamy's jaw goes tight. "We didn't... we didn't all survive," he says. He doesn't know if he can bring himself to say Wells' name yet. The Duchess' face falls.

"You have dead in the ship?"

"Three," Bellamy confirms hoarsely. "And one injured who needs a doctor urgently."

The Duchess snaps an order to the entourage of guards and aides who follow her, and several peel off immediately, presumably to carry the bodies out. Bellamy has the sudden, terrible urge to set Clarke down and fend off the faceless Mandalorian guards, desperately unwilling to let strangers handle his friends' bodies. Wells was his responsibility, and Atom, too. Then two of the Duchess' guards move to take Clarke from his arms, and he instinctively takes a step back, holding on tighter even though he's barely standing upright. Bellamy can't carry everyone, but goodness, he wishes he were able. The Duchess' shrewd gaze notes his reaction, and waves her guards to give him space, but the appraising second look she gives Bellamy makes him think he's not being subtle about his care for her daughter. 

"Are you sure you don't need help?" she asks, an undercurrent of steel in her voice. "Forgive me, but you all look like you're about to fall over."

"We barely got out alive," Miller answers for him. Bellamy's grateful, because his failure still lodges painfully in his throat.

"Was the fleet not enough?" the Duchess asks, frowning with concern. The expression is so like Clarke's that Bellamy nearly misses what she says next. "I'm sorry we couldn't send more."

Bellamy blinks. At his side, Miller is looking back and forth from him to the Duchess.

"Uh, Duchess..." Monty starts to say, before realizing none of them have any idea how to address her.

"What fleet?" Bellamy asks bluntly.

"The Mandalorian fleet," the Duchess says. "We seceded from the Republic just yesterday. I sent Kane and Admiral Sinclair to liberate Arkadia just a few hours ago. You've come sooner than we expected. Are your other survivors on route?"

Bellamy's head spins. The guards sent to retrieve their dead from the Skyripper walk past at that very moment, three covered stretchers carried between them. Bellamy feels ill at the sight.

"Duchess," he says faintly, unable to tear his eyes away from the gray blankets shrouding the stretchers. "We didn't see any fleet. If Mandalore came to help, it came too late."

The implications dawn on them slowly, and then all at once. The weight of regret makes Bellamy close his eyes. If the Mandalorian fleet left a few hours ago, and it took Monty a few hours to fly them here, then the fleet would have arrived just after Harper led the evacuation fleet in a desperate bid for freedom. Maybe there would not be so many broken starfighters scattered in the atmosphere around Arkadia. Bellamy wonders if they could have known help was coming somehow, if they could have waited, but no - Ontari was standing on the steps of the palace with her lightsaber to Wells' throat, waiting for them. She wouldn't have waited forever.

Behind Bellamy, Jasper - who is unburdened by the societal shame that restricts most people from cursing in front of powerful government officials who hold themselves like queens - swears loudly. Bellamy can't bring himself to disagree.

In his arms, Clarke begins to stir. Bellamy sets her on her feet, one arm still around her waist and supporting her weight as she wakes, her eyes dazed. It turns out to be a good call because a second later she lashes out with the Force, knocking back Bellamy, her mother, and anyone else standing close enough.

Clarke staggers several steps forward before falling to her knees, her hair slipping off her shoulders and hanging down. Bellamy sees the spot where Anya weaved her bloody fingers, leaving the hair behind Clarke's ear dark and clumped together as it dried, and his stomach churns. Around them, metal groans and the nearby ships list ever so slightly, as though pulled into a hurricane where Clarke is the eye. The glass chandeliers overhead tinkle, before they're torn apart and the shattered pieces zip through the air like a flock of razor-sharp birds, singularly focused on one point. Everything that isn't huge or bolted down is swept up in the maelstorm. Even before it all coalesces into a violent whirlwind around Clarke's crouched body, Bellamy recognizes it as a reprisal of the moment after Lexa came to Arkadia to take Clarke home, when she tore chunks of the earth out and held them suspended in the air with the force of her grief. He can't let her inflict the same destruction here, with civilians nearby.

"Clarke!" the Duchess cries, held back and shielded from the storm by her armoured guards. Their blasters, along with Miller's beanie and Jasper's goggles, have all been torn away and are whipping around Clarke with the glittering remains of the chandeliers.

Where everyone else backs away, Bellamy runs forward. He feels a hand - probably Miller, trying to protect him, even now - grope at the fluttering end of his jacket, but he's too quick to be caught. He grabs the hem of his jacket and throws his arms up, shielding his neck and face with the jacket's built-in armour. The glass shards beat against his side as he gets too close, and Bellamy grits his teeth and pushes forward even as he feels the whirlwind tear tiny gashes in his ribcage through his shirt. 

At the eye of the hurricane, like he predicted, there is only calm. 

Or, as much calm as there can be when the source of the raging storm around them is dazed and mourning, tears streaming from her unseeing eyes. He can definitely hear Miller yelling outside the swirling wall of glass.

"Clarke," Bellamy says gently, wrapping her up in his arms and holding her at the center of her vortex of destruction. The walls his mother taught him to build around his mind are thick and unyielding, each additional year of Octavia's life having added more layers. He struggles to strip them down now, to chip away a gap large enough for a doorway. He visualizes it swinging open and inviting Clarke. _Look_ , he says, spreading his arms wide to gesture to the landscape of his mind. _Here is where my rage goes. Over there is my grief, everyone I've lost planted in a garden that will never grow. I know your pain. It's mine too, and it's not fair, and I agree, and you're not alone._

He doesn't know how the Force works. If she can pick coherent sentences out of his mind like that, if he's shouting them loudly enough. He only knows he's trying to love as hard as he can.

Clarke's fingers spasm in his grasp. He feels something intangible brush across him, quick and fleeting, like an apology, like a balm for a burn. For a moment it seems like the universe is composed wholly of grief, a single note of pain and longing that echoes long after their sources have gone. It's the first time Bellamy begins to believe in the Force - not the miracles that Jedi perform, not the hand-waving or the telekinesis - but the philosophy, the unbreakable faith in a web that connects every living being. For a moment he is comforted by the imagined weight of a hand on his shoulder. It is warm and heavy and familiar. The touch of a friend.

Then it ripples outwards, once, and is lost. His friends are still dead and the Force can't do _shit_ to change that. Clarke is still sobbing into his chest like the apocalypse is upon them. The glass hurricane slows, and Bellamy presses his cheek to Clarke's hair, ignoring the dirt and dried blood. He realizes he's rocking her soothingly, like he used to do with Octavia, like he's selfishly thought of doing with someone of his own a few times.

 _I'm sorry we have to keep living after they've gone_ , he thinks, and he doesn't know how he's still keeping it together himself, thinks he might still be too numb to cry and hates himself for it. He almost wishes he could fling a couple of chandeliers around and get it out of his system too.

Clarke stirs, but only to get a better grip on his hand and to press her face into his shoulder. Bellamy rubs her arm absently as he feels her exhale, rough and deep.

"Are you here with me?" Bellamy asks quietly. 

"Yes," she replies, just as quietly. "I'm sorr - "

"No," Bellamy interrupts. He doesn't say _we've just been through hell_ or _you've held it in long enough_ or _I want to scream about it too_ , but he thinks she knows. 

"I hurt you," Clarke says, her fingertips brushing his ribs where the shards of glass have left tiny red streaks against his shirt. Bellamy grabs her fingers and holds tight, shaking his head. A familiar emotion rises in her eyes. Bellamy knows well how to recognize self-hatred.

He remembers, very reluctantly, that they're not alone in the port. He looks up, and sees first his friends looking both wary and worried, the Mandalorian guards looking like they're trying to figure out if they're a threat to security, and lastly, Clarke's mother herself, giving Bellamy a significantly more scrutinizing look than the already piercing one she'd given when he refused to hand her over. Clarke's hand tightens involuntarily on his and Bellamy can pinpoint the moment she too realizes she's practically collapsed in his lap, how intimate they look, how several months cavorting with rebels in the woods and blowing up munitions deliveries has eroded the distance between them. This is not what good Jedi do, especially not in public.

Bellamy helps her stand, his own knees weak, and holds tight to her hand before she can pull it away. 

A few years ago he might have leaped away, might have made excuses, might have shown shame. But in this universe Bellamy went into politics and rubbed shoulders with the richest of Arkadia while they all competed for the honour of advising Wells. In this universe he's learned enough to raise his chin with a confidence he doesn't think he has and keep a perfectly impassive face. The perception of power is often enough power to get something done.

"It's been an exhausting day," he says, loudly and evenly, revealing nothing. "Before we're ready to regroup and discuss the future, we'll need rooms and rest."

The Duchess examines him for another moment, her intelligent brown eyes narrowed, before instructing her aides to show the _Skyripper's_ survivors their lodgings.

Bellamy intends just to make sure Clarke gets to a room and then give her space, but the familiar stubborn set of her face returns and she completely ignores the aide who led them through the twisting geometric halls of her mother's home.

"Stay with me," she says. Bellamy looks sideways at the aide, who studiously pretends to be busy with her datapad. And he follows Clarke in, because if he falls apart, he doesn't want to be alone.

The chambers are large and so uniformly pale blue that Bellamy's eyes seek out the splotches of other colours in the room. The poster bed in the center is exactly what he imagined a princess might sleep in, when he listened to his mother's fairytales as a kid, and the furnishings are ornate and embroidered with gold thread, but the room is otherwise mostly sparse. Not quite militant, Bellamy thinks, as he takes in the handful of stuffed animals and a vase full of stumpy drawing pencils on the desk. It just looks like no one's returned to live here in a very long time.

"This was your room?" he asks, but he knows the answer before Clarke nods. She goes to the closet and sheds her brown robes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Bellamy averts his eyes as she robotically strips off everything else as well, dressing in a sleep shirt that only comes down to her thighs. 

"I think this shirt will fit you," she says, throwing another one at him over her shoulder and then disappearing further into the depths of the closet. "And there's probably a pair of pants somewhere."

Bellamy catches the shirt and looks at the smear of dirt he's already left on it. 

"I think we're too dirty for a room this clean," he says numbly. Atom's blood is still under his fingernails. He made a very short-lived attempt at spreading bacta on his throat before realizing it wasn't an injury someone could come back from.

"Don't care," Clarke says, returning with a pair of drawstring pants that do indeed seem to be large enough for him. She sets her lightsaber on the nightstand, climbs into the enormous, too-rich bed, and hides under the covers without giving him another look. Bellamy looks at the lump underneath the covers for a moment, and gets undressed. He feels more naked than expected, peeling off the armour he's practically lived in for the past months. All he can think about as he puts the soft Mandalorian silk on his body is how thin it is, how fragile, how unprepared he would be if Monroe or Harper woke them up in the middle of the night with an emergency, or there was a raid, or - 

But no, they're on Mandalore, aren't they? And this is why Bellamy picked it. Because he thought it would be _safe_. And there's no more rebellion to nurture in the middle of the night anymore. Soon, there won't be an Arkadia left at all.

So he pushes aside the discomfort, the fear of a blaster bolt to the back, and crawls into the other side of the bed. He sees the lightsaber placed within Clarke's armreach and doesn't think he's the only one feeling unnerved by the apparent peace and luxury, which helps too. The silence lasts for a long time. He knows Clarke hasn't fallen back asleep from the pace of her breathing, but he doesn't want to speak first.

He falls into an uneasy sleep before either of them get the courage to say something.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Charmaine Diyoza sits in a lawn chair with her knees insolently far apart and watches the sky fall down. Her massive repeating blaster sits in her lap, the weapon's hard metal edge digging into the swollen curve of her belly. She adjusts it without a hint of a wince on her face and glances at Zeke, who is standing next to her, visibly shaking.

"We should do something," Zeke says.

Honestly, Charmaine is shocked it took him so long. She watched him pace endlessly through the Eligius campsite all morning and kept checking her watch to see how long he'd resisted running off to be a hero. The boy has a Twi'lek girl offworld that he's sweet on, thinks he's discreet about calling her. It's been waking up all sorts of latent optimism in him.

It's very exciting for Charmaine when she guesses wrong. Means there's still something left to surprise her.

Their Azgedan escorts pulled out less than an hour ago, leaving the Eligius camps to govern themselves. Charmaine supposes that means they got enough of the rhydonium they had her drilling for. She'd be impressed by the efficiency of the Azgedan retreat - less than twenty minutes after getting some mysterious order, they were all packed up and matching back onto transport ships, no loitering, no questions asked - if it didn't mean that now she has to deal with McCreary. If she knows him well, that idiot will already be crowing about gathering the last of the rhydonium they can extract before Arkadia explodes and selling it under the table for a fortune. If course, Charmaine would like to do the same thing, except that she's smart enough not to flood the market with a massive supply all at once and drive the prices down just to clean her hands of it.

She looks away from the tendons straining on Zeke's trembling fists and back up at the sky. It's raining pieces of starships from the battle that happened over their heads. If Charmaine were still the sort of person who found things beautiful, she might think of it that way now. It's a long way to the ground, and the debris burning up in atmosphere leaves long trails of fire and smoke streaking the sky. There were fireworks on her planet, when she was a child.

It wasn't Blake's rebels who did this, Charmaine knows that much. _They never stood a chance, poor fools_. Charmaine rubs at the thick scar across her neck and allows herself a single wistful moment of memory.

"I'm going to take a Mole unit up to that fleet, see if there's anything I can do to help," Zeke says hoarsely.

Charmaine Diyoza squints at the ships still in orbit around Arkadia. They're  _probably_ here to save Arkadia, for all the good it'll do now, too little too late. There's a small chance it's another empire with the same idea as Azgeda, come to scavenge what's left, but no - Azgeda's retreat makes no sense. They had every tactical advantage. They had near total control of the planet. They were wiping the sky with the pitiful collection of starfighters Blake's little rebellion managed to scrounge up.

"How do you know they won't shoot you out of the sky for being complicit in the invasion?" Charmaine asks.

Zeke looks at her, his eyes shining.

"Because you'll have the signal jammer disabled and a negotiation started with them before I break atmosphere," he says confidently.

He's lucky she likes him. Charmaine raises an eyebrow.

"Sounds an awful lot like you giving me orders, kid," she says.

"Not giving orders," Zeke says. "Appealing to your better nature."

"What better nature?" Charmaine scoffs.

"I know you're still an idealist, deep down," Zeke says.

"It'll take you ten minutes, at most, to reach that fleet," Charmaine says. She's not complaining. "You want me to get out of my very comfortable chair, into the Azgedan camp, blow up the signal jammer, deal with the insurrection McCreary is most definitely plotting, and convince that fleet up there not to blow you up, all in ten minutes?"

She might be complaining a little.

"You can do it," Zeke says.

"I'm pregnant," Charmaine retorts.

"That's never stopped you before."

He starts walking in the direction the Mole units are parked. Charmaine glowers at his back as it grows smaller and taps her nails against the metal casing of her massive blaster.

"Ten minutes," she scoffs.

She does it in seven.

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ARKADIA**

 

Raven follows her Fang escorts into the hangar of the Mandalorian command ship and parks where traffic control tells her to. ALI-E2 whistles nervously at her as she storms down the ramp and yanks her helmet off. Raven's forehead and neck are damp with sweat and the air in the hangar is cool against her skin. It tastes fresher and sweeter than that of her oxygen tanks, though it's still recycled - Raven wonders if that's just placebo.

ALI bumps against the back of her legs and Raven puts her hand on the droid's chassis to steady herself. ALI chirps a question.

"No," Raven says, though she's already come to find her droid comforting. "I'll go alone." She glares at a nearby maintenance crew that's already rushing closer with a toolbox and a fuel pump. "Watch our ship. Let them fuel up, but if anyone tries to do repairs, electrocute them."

Then she grabs the nearest Fang pilot by the shoulder and demands to be taken to the bridge. The fire in her eyes must burn away any opposition in the pilot. He throws his hands up as she leans in and stands very still in the corner of the elevator as they ride up.

"What happened to the rebellion?" Raven snaps as she watches the floors tick up one by one, far too slow for the pace of her racing heart. She doesn't look at the pilot's reflective helmet, too afraid of what she'd see in the visor. Her hands are still shaking at her sides as her mind conjures terrible scenarios. She wasn't _here_. She wasn't _fast enough_.

"They were gone when we got here, sir," the pilot says nervously. "Azgeda's fleet left just a few minutes later. They were completely uninterested in fighting us."

But Raven remembers the blueprints she found on Azgeda's servers. That ship, when constructed, could take on the whole Mandalorian fleet. Her fists clench.

"Just get me to the bridge," she mutters, looking down at her feet.

The elevator dings and the pilot wordlessly leads her down another twisting corridor. The doors at the end slide open with a soft hiss of air and Raven storms in, her eyes firmly fixed on the figures standing around a holographic projection of Arkadia, murmuring and pointing at waves that pulse over its surface.

Senator Kane is one of the first to notice her entrance. Confusion flashes over his face before he remembers the hacker that spoonfed him the evidence he was too dense to gather on his own.

"Miss Reyes!" he begins. "How did you - "

"What the fuck happened here?" she asks, gesturing at the bridge's massive windshield. Beyond the glass, Arkadia smokes.

But whatever Kane says in response is drowned out by a quieter, incredulous voice that says only: " _Raven?_ "

She freezes. It seems like an eternity before she makes herself turn and face a familiar figure who she hadn't noticed in her fury. It's a small consolation that Zeke Shaw looks about as floored to see her as she feels.

Raven has spent a significant part of their friendship - their... _something_ \- wondering what it would be like to see him in person for the first time. Those dreams seem foolish now - the fancies of the same girl who thought Finn Collins had her back, years and years ago. She never thought she would meet Zeke like this - in public, surrounded by strangers, wearing a second-rate spacesuit drenched in sweat from the helpless terror she felt on the flight here, and _especially_ not while the overriding thought in her brain is _you failed! you were too late! your friends are all dead!_ Her eyes sting with tears that she furiously blinks away. How _dare_ Zeke be here, looking at her with such awe and relief, when she thought he might be dead or injured, when everyone else might still be? How dare it happen like this? She wants to _scream_ with the absurdity and the unfairness of it all.

"You didn't answer my messages," Raven blurts out instead.

Zeke's face immediately falls.

"I never got them," he says, exchanging a haunted look with Kane, who has _no business_ sticking his nose into her conversation. Raven tries to keep her breathing even. She's not conserving oxygen now, she can afford it. "Azgeda put me in solitary confinement a few days ago for a fight I didn't start. I... I only got out this morning," he says, glancing at the destruction outside the window. "And by then, this had already started."

Raven shakes her head, still reeling. She turns to Kane and the man at his side, whose armour identifies him as one 'Admiral Sinclair.'

"What about Blake and his rebellion?" Raven demands, looking desperately for answers between each face on the bridge. "And the Jedi with them?"

"There's no sign of Senator Blake or Padawan Griffin," Kane says. "Or anyone else alive. Our scouts found a few rebel bodies, but - "

" _No one_ can tell us what happened down there?" Raven demands.

"The only people on Arkadia right now are Eligius," Zeke says. "Diyoza's crew is taking control now."

"In case it wasn't clear enough," Sinclair adds. "We really mean there's almost _no one_ down there - dead or alive. Arkadia's people somehow vanished into thin air."

_Like they were never here at all._

Raven crosses the bridge and comes to stand in front of the massive windshield. Arkadia takes up the majority of the view and even with the battle debris burning as it falls through its atmosphere, even with the craters Eligius has drilled into it - if Raven squints it's still beautiful. More beautiful than the sandy wastes of Tattooine where she was born, or the austere glimmer of Coruscant. Raven never got to call Arkadia home but thousands of other people did. They can't have vanished into thin air.

Zeke steps closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he looks down at the planet too.

"I'm sorry, Raven," he says. His hoarse voice is at once familiar and strange to her without the usual distortion from a holographic message.

She exhales heavily.

"It's not your fault," she says duly. "That's the worst part. We did the best we could. And it still wasn't enough."

 

 

 

 

 

**MANDALORE**

 

Clarke wakes from a dream where everyone she loves is still alive and well, and keeps her eyes closed, unwilling to face reality yet. The warmth at her back offers a comforting distraction. She doesn't need to reach for the Force to remember that it's Bellamy. She can feel his breathing, slow and deep, his chest pressing between her shoulderblades when he inhales. She can smell him on her pillowcase, underneath the scent of her childhood detergent. Having him here is a kindness she doesn't think she deserves, but can't bear to shun. 

There's enough input confusing her senses that she's in no rush to open her eyes. Mandalorian fabrics are silky to the touch, finer than anything she slept on in the Jedi Temple. Clarke's head spins at the bizarre novelty of returning here after so long, having _Bellamy_ here, surrounded by her mother's stern luxury. All they've known for the past few months has been crackling campfires and balled-up sweaters for pillows and showers that are really just pouring a bucket of lakewater over your head while your friend holds up a tarp for privacy and trying to scrub off all the blood before their arms get tired.

It's not fair.

Clarke drags her fingertips along the fine bedsheet underneath her and quietly mourns for every Arkadian prisoner or rebel who died before they could find peace like this. She mourns for - 

\- no, she's not ready to say their names yet. 

Something wet and cold trickles down her cheek and soaks the pillow. It doesn't register that she's crying until she hiccups, her ribcage shaking as she tries to hold in a sob. The arm around her waist tightens. 

"Hey, I'm here. You're not alone," Bellamy says hoarsely. She feels the mattress shift as he props himself up on his elbow and presses his forehead to the exposed curve of her neck. In the rebel camp on Arkadia they slept on inflatable pads. They filled them up with air in the evening and by morning would wake to find all the air had leaked out and they were resting on the cabin floor. Less than two days ago Clarke's knees had dug into the wood underneath the pad every time she'd ground her hips down on Bellamy. And now they're sleeping on a bed so soft she'd have to crawl uphill to climb out of it. 

 _It hasn't even been two days_.

She's lived lifetimes. Clarke's life has been irrevocably altered so often that she feels like disparate pieces of her are scattered across time and space. The version of her that would carefully wrap sandwiches in napkins so her father could eat lunch when he was too engrossed in a project to wash the engine grease off his hands. The self that is the daughter of the Duchess of Mandalore, that stands next to her in portraits with a ruler-straight back. The self that thought it would be enough to heal the wounded under Master Jackson's watchful eye. The self who thought the way to peace was through espionage missions with her Master. The self who was ready to die on those palace steps yesterday, when she'd failed to liberate Arkadia or save Wells.

She can tell she's shattered yet again, become yet another Clarke, one who will have to find a way forward without Anya or Wells.

"How many people," Clarke says, her voice wavering through the tears she's keeping back. " - how many people will we have to lose?"

"As many as we can stand," Bellamy says to the curve of her neck. "And then more," he adds grimly. And Clarke remembers, suddenly, that he'd loved Wells too, and that he's just lost his sister to a fate worse than death. Part of her wants to cry harder. Instead, the tears dry out. She grasps Bellamy's hand to her chest very tightly. She can sense him, in the Force, a maelstrom of love and fury, all locked down for years and years.

"Bellamy," she says. 

They are close to spiraling, both of them. And there are a dozen reasons why she shouldn't do this, and only a few why she should, but maybe that's enough. Maybe it's worth it, if it keeps them from falling apart. 

"I'm here," he says again. 

"Do you want to make a terrible decision with me?" she asks. His hand brushes her sternum through the silk shift she wore to bed. 

"What's the worse that could happen?" he asks, and the distance in his voice cements Clarke's resoluteness. She can't let him linger in yesterday like that. They need a sense of peace, just for a moment, because soon they're going to have to clamber out of this bed and face the remains of the rebellion, and all those people with their scared, upturned faces are going to be counting on them.

She takes a deep breath. Clarke lets go of the hand he's got wrapped around her and uses it to shimmy off her underwear. She feels Bellamy's chest expand with a sharp inhalation, as much as she hears the hiss of breath by her ear. His hand trails down her ribs and skims the side of her bare hip, where her shift has ridden up. His fingers are trembling. 

"Clarke," he says again, and he sounds wrecked already. The arm underneath her pillow shifts down and wraps over her collarbone, pulling her shoulder against his chest. He moves as though to kiss the back of her neck, and then hesitates, his mouth open wide against the skin there and breathing out warm, damp air. Clarke wriggles back and presses her ass into the cradle of his hips. Teeth skim the vertebrae in her neck. 

"I want to pretend the rest of the galaxy doesn't exist. Just for a bit. Don't you? Be selfish with me," she invites, and that's all it takes. She grinds her hips backwards as he pulls her closer, their legs tangling together as he hooks his ankle over hers. Their breathing, harsh and desperate, echoes in the room. He digs his fingers into the side of her hip and chases friction. 

It takes her only another moment to coax his hand between her legs. The first orgasm he gives her is hard and brutal. It's exactly what she needs. Clarke's nearly crying again as she crests the unforgiving wave, bucking against the arm he has wrapped over her chest and the wrist pinning her hips to his. She can't hear what he's whispering into her hair over the roar of her pulse in her ears, as she comes down from it, she realizes he's pleading. 

"What do you need, Bellamy?" she asks, turning her face up to the ceiling. He kisses her cheekbone, her jaw, the shell of her ear.

"This," he says, nose pressed into the crook of her neck. He doesn't seem to be able to voice anything more specific, so she just makes soothing noises as he works his pants down and pulls their hips flush again. 

Clarke's mouth falls open as he slides into her. He pulls out, and the friction makes her melt further into the too-soft bed, into his arms and the reverent kisses he's laying to her neck. He pushes back in deeper than before, and for a moment the relief is enough to drive out all thoughts of despair and destruction. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut, holding onto the dream. The world reduces to the warmth at her back and the splayed fingers on her hip, holding her steady as he thrusts. 

"Bellamy, Bellamy, Bell - " Clarke chants, hardly more than a whisper, and at that he buries his face deeper into her hair. His rhythm starts to stutter, and with a ragged exhale that might be her name, and might be a prayer, he finishes between her thighs. 

The iron grip on her hip relaxes and he goes boneless behind her, breath spilling onto her shoulders with a soft groan of satisfaction. Clarke reaches for that hand and wraps his arm around her waist again, relishing in the squeeze as he pulls her even closer. Her shirt has ridden up to the bottom of her breasts now. He skims the boundary with an absentminded thumb and places a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her neck.

His fingers find the raised edge of an old scar and still. 

"What happened here?" he asks softly. Clarke reluctantly opens her eyes. It was either pirates or aggressive fauna on Felucia. She can't remember which anymore, only that both times Anya was there to dress it with bacta and sternly tell her she was safe, so there was no need to cry now. 

"I'll tell you another time," she says, and Bellamy seems to understand to drop it, because he splays his hand on her sternum and lays more gentle kisses on her neck and shoulders.

The gentle glow of her orgasm doesn't fade when she remembers reality, but she doesn't close her eyes again. The dream is ended - this is the morning. 

Her lightsaber lies on the bedside table. It draws her eye even when she tries to look away. A voice in the back of her mind that sounds like Lexa's tells her she's let her emotions overcome her, but Clarke drives it away savagely. She can't regret allowing herself a few moments of passion with Bellamy, not even if it goes against the Jedi Code. She's never allowed herself selfishness before. She reaches out and swats the air with her hand. The drawer of her bedside table slides out, and she hovers her lightsaber into it before slamming the drawer shut again. _This weapon is your life,_ Anya told her. 

It wasn't enough to save her or Wells.

Through the window of her childhood bedroom she can see the curve of Mandalore's bleak horizon, the inhospitable sandwastes that remain outside the climate-controlled boundaries of the city. She knows the view. It's as gray and dead and broken as it's always been, vast stretches of arid desert marked only by the occasional fossilized tree, forever frozen as though it's about to fall down at the touch of the very next sandstorm. 

And yet... Mandalore lives. 

Clarke threads her fingers between Bellamy's, and they lie there for another few minutes as their breathing slows and Clarke's damp thighs grow colder. She wonders if he can feel her heartbeat under his palm. She wonders if it comforts him like the pulse in his wrist comforts her.

"Are you ready to get up?" she asks. She wishes she didn't have to. They endure the long pause before Bellamy answers, when they both know he wants to say no.

"Let's go see what can be done," he says with a sigh. Clarke climbs out of bed and immediately misses the warmth of his body along her back when the cool air of her room hits her bare legs. She reaches absentmindedly for Bellamy's hand as he follows her up, and leads him to the bathroom with a lingering look at her bed. When she returned to Mandalore as a teen, Anya's lessons fresh in mind, she'd make the bed in the morning with military discipline, even tucking the sheets underneath the mattress. Now it just feels pointless. 

Inside the bathroom, Bellamy fiddles for a moment with the controls to the shower. He jumps as the first drops of water fall, like a heavy rain, from the wide showerhead above. Clarke indulges in a small, sad smile, watching him get used to the warm temperature before she steps in. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes with a reverent expression as the water slicks his hair back. She presses a kiss to his throat and delights in his shiver. 

The shower is big enough that there's room for both of them under the spray, and they could wash without elbowing each other as they reach for the soap, but by unspoken agreement Bellamy and Clarke both turn to help the other wash the weeks of guerrilla warfare off their skin.

Clarke's eyelids flutter shut with gratitude as Bellamy lathers soap onto her shoulder and digs his thumb into the old scars there. She remembers now - the scar on her ribcage was pirates. Her shoulder was the encounter with Felucia's megafauna. A satisfied hum escapes her throat as the old stiffness relaxes under his attention. She repays the favour by running soap-slicked hands through his too-long curls and dropping an apologetic kiss to the blaster scar in his shoulder that she still blames herself for.

"I know it's stupid," Clarke begins, hesitantly. Water droplets run down the planes of Bellamy's face and hang from his nose and chin as he meets her gaze evenly. "And I know that the odds were always impossible, but for a little while..." His hand finds hers. "I almost believed we were going to win."

"It's not stupid," Bellamy says. "I think I know what you mean. We wanted to win so badly. In my mother's stories the good guys almost always won in the end, even if they suffered losses along the way."

"I wanted us to be the good guys so badly," Clarke says, and she presses her face into his palm, breathing in the scent of Mandalorian soap, turning her face inwards and kissing the valley in the center of his palms. Her lips fit so well there it's like she's been kissing his palm all her life. Bellamy lets her warm her cheek in his hand for another moment and then starts untangling her hair, his fingers quick and careful behind her head. She closes her eyes and leans into it, lets herself be cared for.

"In my mother's stories," Bellamy says bitterly, "the good guys were never swayed by evil."

Clarke tries to remember the last time she saw Octavia. In the camp, just before they departed on their own missions. She and Miller were packing up the rover, and Bellamy was walking towards them, and Octavia was sitting alone on the rock, clutching her sword, watching Bellamy walk away from her like he was tearing her apart. Like it was the last time she'd see him. 

Did she intend, then, to leave them and join the Sith? It didn't sound like it, from Jasper's story, but Clarke is afraid, all the same. She saw the terror and uncertainty on Octavia's face. She knew they were both feeling the Sith's ghostly fingers trailing over her mind. And Clarke left anyway, because there wasn't time. 

"I'm sorry, Bellamy," Clarke says, and she turns around and flings her arms around his neck. He clutches back, just as desperately, and they hug until the water runs cold. 

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ARKADIA**

 

Zeke whistles when he sees the _Spacewalker_ for the first time. ALI-E2, ever eager to please, spins around on her wheels and whistles back a greeting. Raven smiles at that despite the pain in her chest. Zeke steps forward and leans in to look at the welding she did on the strike foils. It's not Raven's best work, so she's surprised when Zeke turns on her with wide eyes and says, "Raven, this is really well done."

Her blush burns her cheeks and she looks down.

"Thanks," she says. The praise fills some of the shock and numbness in her chest, and she feels greedy for more.

"Can I see what you did with my ion engines?" he asks.

"Go ahead," she says, and trails after him as he ducks under the wings and reaches up for the maintenance hatch on the underside of the ship's nose. He yelps just before his fingers make contact and grabs his shin. ALI stands at his feet, menacingly brandishing a multitool that sparks at its end.

"Shit," Raven says quickly. "ALI, no! He's allowed to touch it."

"You told your droid to electrocute anyone who comes close?" Zeke asks, grimacing and rubbing at his shin. Raven sticks her chin out.

"The ship's unfinished," she admits. "I didn't want some hothead engineer thinking they could fix something and muck up my work."

"But you trust me with her?" Zeke asks.

Raven shrugs and looks away, trying to play it off like it isn't a big deal, like she isn't inviting him to join in her life's dream.

"She's like ten percent yours," Raven says.

"Ten percent?" Zeke says, shifting his weight with a smirk. "Come on, I sold you more parts than that."

"Labour, Shaw," Raven says, crossing her arms. "I did all the work."

"I better start pulling my weight then. Let's see what you've done here," Zeke says. He unlocks the maintenance hatch and peers up into the gap. Raven steps closer, her chest almost brushing his as she cranes her neck to see what he's looking at.

To her shock, she's a little distracted.

"You're taller than I thought you would be," she says, eyeing the height of his shoulder.

"You're..." Zeke says, looking down at her and trailing off. It takes him a few seconds to regain his trail of thought. "Honestly, it's pretty stupid in hindsight, but I thought you were blue."

Raven's laughter bursts out of her without warning, surprising them both. Of course - the hologram projections they used to chat are tinged blue, and it's a common skin colour for Twi'leks. It's funny that he never questioned it.

"You disappointed?" she asks, baring her teeth.

"Not even close," Zeke swears. He holds her gaze long enough that her cheeks burn, and then his eyes grow sad. "This isn't how I imagined finally meeting you."

"It's not what I imagined either," Raven admits softly. She hesitates and touches the side of his hip. "But on Tattooine, we always made the best of what we had. So come on. Help me get this ship ready for battle. In case..."

"We'll be ready next time," Zeke agrees, his will as steadfast as hers. He reaches up and cups the side of her face, giving her time to pull away. When Raven keeps his gaze, a challenge in her eyes, he leans forward and presses his lips to hers. It's been long enough since she kissed someone that his warmth is a shock against her mouth - she sighs into it, a sigh that echoes through her whole body and eases some of the tension, and in response he steps even closer, tilting her face up. Raven's fingers fist in the folds of his Eligius uniform.

And of course, _that's_ when the comm that Admiral Sinclair gave them goes off. They leap apart, eyes wide, faces flushed.

"If you two haven't wandered too far," Sinclair's voice says, "We just got a transmission from Mandalore you might want to join. It's from the rebels."

 

 

 

 

 

**MANDALORE**

 

Bellamy is sitting by a window overlooking Mandalore's gray desolation when he gets word that Kane's answered. 

There is a plate of stir-fried vegetables in front of him that he's been pushing around with his fork for the past hour. It's not that it's not delicious - it is, objectively, a meal fit for the highest-ranking survivor of a planet like Arkadia. Aside from the few days he spent on Coruscant several months ago, he's been living on the same bland rationed diet as everyone else in Arkadia since the start of the blockade. The plate in front of him is richer and more delicious than anything he's eaten in a year, and it tastes like dust in his mouth.

He's been trying to force himself to eat it for the past hour, long past the point where it went cold, because he knows he should eat, that he needs the fuel to keep fighting, but the excuse of the meeting to delay the too-heavy meal is a welcome relief. 

He pushes the plate away and keeps sitting in his chair for another moment, taking a sip of water, hoping to erase the ever-present taste of ash in his mouth. It eases, but only for a second. It's back before he sets the glass back down. Bellamy closes his eyes and wonders why it's so difficult to stand up. He knows the motions, he's done it all his life. He just needs to take the stupid napkin off his lap and leave it next to the glass, and then push his chair back, and then lean forward and drag the heavy, _heavy_ weight of his body upwards. 

He opens his eyes and he's still sitting in the chair. Hasn't moved. His blood feels as though it's turned to lead in his veins, slow and uncooperative, weighing him down, crushing, inescapable. 

The door opens, and Clarke steps in, blue silk swishing behind her. Everything in Sundari that isn't golden is blue, and Bellamy thinks he'd be sick of the colour by now if it didn't look so good on her. She's silent until she reaches him and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

"You heard...?" she asks. 

"Yeah, I was just..." he says.

"Me too," Clarke replies, the corners of her eyes tight with pain, and she waits there a moment, her hand still warm on his shoulder, while Bellamy takes a deep breath in and exhales some of the weight keeping him rooted to the chair. He stands, dropping the napkin on the table as he does, and takes Clarke's hand before he can think better of it. 

The sharp look she gives him makes him blink. They haven't done this before, have they? Bellamy racks his memory of the last few days, but there's too much, the little moments of happiness with her overshadowed - 

"It's fine," Clarke says before he can pull away, and she squeezes back as they walk to the door. "I just didn't expect it."

"Your mother?" Bellamy asks. 

"Hardly has a say in whose hands I hold in my free time," Clarke says. 

"The Jedi, then."

Clarke's mouth twitches, but he can't tell with what emotion, if it's amusement or something darker. Bellamy focuses on the point of contact between them the whole way to the throne room. It's grounding to mentally trace the planes of her hand in his, to carefully catalogue the way her grip stiffens as they pass certain people. Bellamy takes this memory, this gesture of affection, and he admires it for as long as he dares, and then he puts it into the back of his mind where he hides everything important behind the shielding techniques his mother taught him. 

He stumbles when Clarke stops abruptly in a large, empty hall whose ceiling dwarfs them. Bellamy puts a hand between her shoulderblades and follows her gaze up to the family portrait that hangs on the wall high above them. He sees Clarke first. It would be hard not to. The painter has given her blonde curls a white-gold hue that make her face the brightest point of the portrait, instinctively drawing the eye. Portrait-Clarke is young and chubby-cheeked, maybe only three or four years old, but when Bellamy’s gaze keeps rising upwards to Jake Griffin’s smiling face, he can see some of the echoes of his features in his daughter’s adult face.

“You all look so happy,” Bellamy murmurs before he can stop himself. Clarke looks at him sharply, and then they both look up at Abby Griffin’s soft face, still unlined with worry and sadness.

“I think we were, for a while,” Clarke says, her eyes distant.

“He was assassinated, right?” Bellamy asks carefully, watching Clarke’s face for signs that she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“He was,” Clarke confirms. “Killed for choosing people’s safety over profit.”

“A man ahead of his time,” Bellamy says darkly, and it speaks volumes of the fucked-up turn his and Clarke’s humour has taken that she smiles at that, even if it is a little flat and bitter.

“Let’s go,” she says, and Bellamy lets it be.

In the throne room, Clarke's mother is quietly conversing with Kane's flickering blue silhouette. Her head is bowed, her hands clasped together in front of her skirts. She is standing closer to the hologram than Bellamy would expect, but when she hears them come in she straightens up slowly, not a hint of embarrassment in her face.

The hand holding Clarke's burns. He resists the urge to bow, or do something, reminding himself that he's no longer the son of a seamstress. 

"Senator Blake," Kane's hologram says, nodding. Bellamy mirrors him. 

"How is Arkadia?" he asks, blowing past any pleasantries Kane might have initiated. If he finds this rude, there's no indication. 

"Empty," Kane says flatly. "The Azgedan blockade put up a token resistance when we arrived, but they fled into hyperspace only a few minutes later."

"Outnumbered?" Clarke asks. She's still holding on to his hand. Distantly, Bellamy is aware of the Duchess eyeing their joined hands, but he pushes that away. Arkadia is more important. 

"Not necessarily," Kane says. "Outmaneuvered, maybe, thanks to Admiral Sinclair's expertise, but they seemed almost... uninterested in fighting us."

"Jasper said Octavia made a deal," Bellamy says distantly. He can still remember Octavia aged eight, crying from a scrapped knee. He doesn't understand what's happened. He doesn't understand when she grew up, what he could have done differently. Maybe if he'd left Arkadia with her, when he'd brought the _Skyripper_ \- but no, even then, she didn't want him. 

"A deal?" Kane asks. "With Azgeda?" 

Clarke fills him and her mother in on Jasper's report, the promise of freedom for all Arkadia that Octavia sacrificed herself for. Their faces go stonier, the further into the story. 

"Clarke," Kane says at the end. "This sounds like something the Jedi should be aware of."

She's silent long enough that Bellamy squeezes her hand. Another pause, and she squeezes back, though her eyes are still distant and cold, fixed on some far point on the horizon.

"I'll tell them. On my own terms," she says. She radiates discomfort with the attention on her with every line of her tense, unmoving body. "Please. Just... give me a day."

There is a sudden clatter from behind Kane and a familiar figure limps into the hologram's range. Raven's legs look like they nearly buckle underneath her in relief when she sees Clarke and Bellamy. Clarke, for her part, tugs her hand out of Bellamy's and lurches forward, reaching for the projection of Raven as if to embrace her before remembering that it's only a hologram. She makes a quiet, pained sound that is only audible to Bellamy and awkwardly drops her arms to her side.

"I'm glad you're alive," Raven tells them.

Bellamy means to say something along those lines in return, but last they heard of Raven she was still on Coruscant, spearheading a very different offense against Azgeda. She shouldn't have been in any danger at all, so what comes out of his mouth instead is: "What are you doing on Arkadia?" 

Raven presses her lips together into a thin and unhappy line.

"I came looking for you. Is everyone okay?"

Clarke flinches like she's been physically struck and for Raven, that's answer enough.

 

 

 

 

 

**MANDALORE**

 

"Why are you fine?" Jasper asks.

"I'm not fine."

Monty responds as though on autopilot, without looking up from the latest round of simulations he's running on his datapad. No matter how he massages the variables, the result is dismal. It's driving him mad, but he can't stop until he isolates what went wrong, what they could have forseen and fixed.

"You look fine," Jasper says bitterly, slamming cupboards in the _Skyripper's_ kitchen. "You _don't_ look like our friend just got brainwashed into an evil cult and bunch of other people just died in front of us."

"Can we do this another time?" Monty snaps. "I'm trying to concentrate."

" _Fine_ ," Jasper says, slamming a final cupboard and emerging with an ornate bottle in hand. The loud bang makes Monty flinch. "I'll go process my emotions somewhere where it won't disturb you."

"Alcohol? Jasper," Monty says in exasperation. "That's not processing emotions, that's shooting your liver in the foot."

"My liver doesn't have a foot," Jasper snaps back in a high, mocking voice, and his footsteps echo down the ship's ramp before Monty can say anything else. Monty stares hard at the doorway he left through and struggles to take in a deep breath.

"I'm not fine," he says very quietly, not that anyone's around to hear, so he turns back to his simulations.

 

 

 

 

 

**MANDALORE**

 

Abby arranged for Wells' body to be encased in carbonite while they slept. Clarke's stomach drops when her mother tells her the news, after a tight hug and an apologetic kiss to the cheek. 

"It might not be safe to bury him on Arkadia for a while," Abby says. "I had the other boy - "

"Atom," Clarke fills in quietly. 

" - I had him frozen too," Abby says, moving on like the name of a single soldier isn't a particularly important detail to note, and for her, for a woman who has been in charge of an entire planet for twenty years, it probably isn't very important. "Until we find more appropriate funeral rites. I assumed the Jedi would have their own methods for - "

"Can I say goodbye?" Clarke interrupts. Abby nods before silently leading her away

Someone took the care to dress Wells’ body in fine cloth with tiny geometric embroidery before the carbonite. Laid flat over the hole in his stomach, he looks like he could be sleeping, if he were less gray, if Clarke couldn't feel his absence in the Force. 

She keeps looking at the place where Ontari's lightsaber pierced him through. There's no sign of the wound now, just that beautiful cloth turned to solid, gray carbonite. Morbidly, she wonders how it works. What's happened to the space the lightsaber carved out? Is it a pocket of air now, hidden and trapped for the rest of time? Or is he solid all the way through, like he'd been carved out of carbonite all along, and never a living creature with a smile and blood that rushed through his veins and lungs that inflated?

She's seen Mandalore's fossilized trees broken open, the tree rings turned layers of rock. She thinks of those, now. They haven't been allowed to rest and return to rot either.

"I've seen enough," Clarke says, turning away from the carbonite slab that may or may not be her oldest friend. 

"Clarke..." Abby says, resting an uncertain hand on her back. Clarke closes her eyes and takes deep breaths not to shake it off.

"There's a lot to do," Clarke says.

"You don't have to be the person to do it now," Abby says. "You have help, you're not by yourself anymore - "

Clarke shakes her head, swallowing down bile, and something must show on her face, because Abby doesn't try to protest again. 

She feels nauseated all the way through a meeting with Kane and Bellamy and representatives from other systems that might be swayed to help Arkadia or join Mandalore's tentative new independence. Bellamy sits at the table across from her and looks vaguely gray the whole time. Their eyes meet across the room as one of the representatives drones on and on about conflicting trade agreements they'll have to abide by before they provide the Arkadian refugees with any aid, and Clarke recognizes the shadows under Bellamy's eyes, the guilt that lingers. 

They don't say anything, but Clarke puts her hand on the table and splays her fingers out before curling them into a fist, and Bellamy closes his eyes briefly, like a blink in slow motion. The human fist is said to be the size of a heart. Clarke thinks he understands. The meeting goes on and on and on, but theirs remains the strongest alliance. The heart of a rebellion. 

After dinner, Clarke finds Jasper sitting on a catwalk overlooking the hangar with a bottle of Corellian whiskey in his lap that's a lot emptier than it should be.

"It's over, isn't it?" Jasper asks. "We've lost everything."

"I don't know," Clarke says hoarsely. "It feels pretty awful, but we're still here."

"Octavia's not," Jasper says. "Roma and Mbege and Atom aren't. Miller's dad isn't. Most of Arkadia isn't." He thinks for a moment and then pulls into himself. "Prince Wells and your Master, too. Sorry. I guess you lost someone too."

Clarke sits down.

"Yeah," she says hollowly. "Guess I did." It still hasn't sunk in.

"I thought Force sensitive people were like - " Jasper says. He breaks off, staring across neat rows of starfighters as he searches for the right word. It doesn't come, so he takes a swig of the bottle of whiskey. "Not immortal," he says. "I know you get older. But like - I thought you guys were indestructible."

"We're not," Clarke agrees quietly. She eyes his death-grip on the bottle neck in his lap. "And neither are you, unless Zabraks suddenly evolved to metabolize twice as much alcohol as Humans when I wasn't looking."

"What do you care, anyway?" Jasper asks. His tone turns sarcastic. "What's one life, in the face of a grand, uncaring galaxy? What does it matter?"

"It matters a lot," Clarke says. "You're my friend."

He stares at her.

"If you're not gonna stop drinking," Clarke says. "At least have the decency to share."

Jasper passes her the bottle silently. She takes a deep swig, half to feel it burn down her throat, half to leave less for him later.

"I don't know if I shot the shield generator," Jasper says suddenly, after a long period of awkward silence. Clarke blinks.

"But it came down," she says. 

"Yeah," Jasper says. He reaches for the bottle in her hand and glares when she holds it just out of his reach. He drops his hands back into his lap and fiddles, his fingers drumming an off-kilter beat against his knees. Clarke hears him draw in a deep, shaking breath. "I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. And the generator blew up. But I - I wasn't aiming. The Sith lady, she changed the trajectory of one of my shots. I think..."

"Jasper..." Clarke whispers. She leans in, hesitating just before they touch, wanting to comfort him and yet keenly aware of the sharp edges of his anger. He blames her, at least a little bit, for not getting through to Octavia. But not as much as he blames himself. Jasper scoots closer and Clarke thinks he's searching for warmth until his hand closes around the neck of the whiskey bottle. She lets him take it from her with a sigh and sits stiffly as he takes another swig. 

"I didn't aim," Jasper says quietly. "I just hoped Octavia would. Do you think...?"

"You could drive yourself mad wondering what the answer is," Clarke says.

Jasper polishes off the last of the whiskey and then winds his arm back to throw the empty bottle. The glass catches the light and reflects it back into their eyes. Clarke lets it soar through the air and cushions it with the Force just before it impacts the floor far below them. 

"Oh, fuck you," Jasper says as she sets it down, right-side-up, and releases her mental hold on it. Clarke would have liked to see it shatter too, personally, but she doesn't have to be the one to explain to her mother why there's broken glass in the hangar bay. After a moment, Jasper starts to cry. He leans into Clarke's shoulder and she stays there, bearing his weight, until his sobs crash on the shore of their incomprehensible grief.

They're still sitting up on the catwalks when a familiar shape docks in the hangar below them. Clarke stiffens as the Jedi T-6 shuttle's engines rumble and go dark. The ramp lowers, and her mother strides forward with her everpresent contingent of guards to greet the newcomer.

It's Master Jackson. Of course. After Lexa failed to get through to her, _of course_ the Jedi would send someone both Clarke and her mother will have trouble denying.

"This means you're going to run away, right?" Jasper asks as Abby and Jackson hug.

"It's not running away," Clarke says.

"It is," Jasper insists. Clarke stands up.

"It's not," she says. "I - I have to go."

She flees. She doesn't care who sees her run to Bellamy's quarters, doesn't care if later they'll talk about the desperate way she pounds on the door and tries not to cry. He opens only a few second later, his hand on the blaster in his belt, his eyes as frantic and wild as hers must look.

"What's wrong?" he asks, grabbing her shoulder. His palm burns against her shoulder, then against the curve of her neck as he drags it upwards to cup her cheek. Clarke presses against his chest, pushing him back into the safety and privacy of his room. She doesn't trust her voice to speak yet, so as soon as the door is shut behind them she wraps her arms around his waist and breathes shakily against his collarbone. "Clarke...? You smell like alcohol."

"Master Jackson is here," she says, muffled by his collar. "I'm - he's - _Bellamy_."

His fingers shakily stroke her hair as he makes soft, soothing noises. He twists his neck and kisses her temple gently. Her heartbeat slows, eventually. She doesn't know how long they stand there.

"This means you're leaving, doesn't it?" Bellamy asks. His voice is even, unreadable. Clarke is suddenly vividly reminded of the first few days after they met, when she wanted to slap him constantly. She doesn't want this Bellamy, the politician, the one who controls the emotions on his face, to be the one she says goodbye to. She takes a deep breath and tries to ground herself in the Force, though there's nothing nearby for her to latch onto, no living plants, not Bellamy's ceaseless storm of a mind. 

"I have to take Anya back to the Order," she says. "She deserves the funeral she would have wanted. And then I'll probably have to face the consequences for running off to fight a war and refusing to come home, and - "

She can't say the last part, but Bellamy's eyes flicker with anger anyway. 

"Are you going to tell them about Octavia?" he asks. 

"I don't see a way around it," she admits. "If I don't, they might not take the threat of a Sith on the Azgedan throne seriously enough."

Bellamy's hands cup her cheeks, not quite gently. He presses his forehead to hers and sighs, rough and frustrated and helpless.

"Promise me you'll try to keep her safe," he urges. "Tell them she's not - she's my little sister. She's not a monster, this is a mistake. Promise me you won't let the Jedi kill her for it."

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Bellamy's fingers tangle in her hair and tug at the roots as his hands turn to shaking fists.

"Bellamy," Clarke says, her voice cracking. "I'll try. I can only promise I'll try."

He pulls away from her with a low swear and moves to stand by the window. Dusk has fallen over Mandalore. Outside the city's dome, the endless gray desolation stretches as far as Clarke's dread. She stands by the door for a couple of moments, wondering if she should go, if Bellamy doesn't want her here any more. 

"After all this," he murmurs. "You're going to go back to them."

"It's not like that," Clarke tries to say, but Bellamy turns on her, his eyes blazing. 

"They abandoned us," he shouts. "What part of that don't you understand? You _begged_ them for help, Clarke, have you already forgotten? It was just us! _We_ made the decisions, _we_ kept the rebellion going. _We're_ the ones who gave them hope and sent them to die. After all that, you're going back? After they've proven they don't give a _shit_ , you're going to trust them with my little sister's life?"

"I have not forgotten!" Clarke yells back, crossing the room in a few long strides. Bellamy is forced to take a half step back as she crowds him against the window, her shoulders shaking with fury, a finger jabbing into Bellamy's chest to make a point. "I said I'd try, didn't I?"

"That's not good enough," Bellamy snarls. 

"Then ask me to stay!"

Clarke's voice rings out into shocked silence. Bellamy's hands fumble behind him to brace his weight on the windowsill. Clarke realizes, without warning, that her eyes are burning with the effort of holding back tears. She hates _this_ , she hates the betrayed look in Bellamy's eyes, she hates feeling like they're back to where they started only more terrible and more aware of the best places to hurt each other. The first tears leak out of the corner of one eye and she bites her lip to keep it from trembling. Bellamy swallows hard and leans forward again, one of his hands coming up as if to comfort her before he catches himself and pulls it back to his side. Clarke takes in a deep, shaky breath. 

"Ask me to stay," she whispers pleadingly. Bellamy's face is a mask of pain. She can't read what he's thinking underneath. In the Force the storm is stronger than ever, but when he finally speaks, what feels like an eternity later, his voice is very quiet and very calm. 

"If you need me to ask," he says flatly. "Then you're not ready to leave." 

A sob bursts out of her throat before she can choke it back. Clarke presses her hand to her mouth and turns away so he doesn't have to see her like this. 

"I'm scared, Bellamy," she confesses in a wavering voice. "That's why I need to go back. I'm scared that if I don't, I'll be the next to turn to the Dark side."

"You wouldn't," Bellamy says urgently. She _feels_ him move more than she sees or hears it - she feels the air move, feels the Force pulling her attention to him wherever he goes. He's become a permanent notch in her compass, a dot in the vast universe that drowns everything else out. His fingertips touch her jaw. "Clarke," he breathes. "Look at me." She raises her head reluctantly. "Clarke, you wouldn't. I need you to believe me."

"You don't know that," she says, shaking her head. Bellamy's hands cup her cheeks. He steps forward and closes the distance between them, his chest brushing hers, his face bent down to hers. 

"I know you," he promises. "You're _good_. Please, I can't lose you too."

"I'm sorry," Clarke says, the tears welling up in her eyes though she couldn't even say for certain what she's apologizing for, only that she means it with every fiber of her being. Bellamy shushes her gently and presses his mouth to hers. For a moment the world goes quiet. Clarke allows the spill of his warm breath over her face and the quiet, yearning murmur he makes in his throat as they kiss to chase away some of the fear. But it is always only temporary - the Jedi don't let themselves keep anything. 

She's the first to break the kiss, but she's not strong enough to pull away. She keeps standing there, eyes closed, swaying against him, trying to memorize the warmth of his hands on her face and the solidness of his body against hers. One of his hands drops from her face to curl around her back, pulling her closer. The other migrates into her hair, gathering into a fist the curls he just untangled. Bellamy curls like a comma to bury his face in her hair and hold her close. 

"I have to go," Clarke whispers. "I lost control three times. I  _hurt_ you, Bellamy. I can't come back until I'm sure it won't happen again."

His fingers twitch along her back and he only pulls her in closer, shaking. 

"A few more minutes," he asks quietly. And Clarke knows he's allowed himself to be selfish so few times in his life that this is one of the only things he's ever asked the Force for. She gently pushes him away only far enough to see his face and presses a wordless kiss to his cheek. He tucks her into his side and they look through the window to avoid seeing the other cry. And they stand in silence for a while, waiting for something living to move on the gray plains beyond the window, having nothing left to say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW MANY BEDSHARING SCENES CAN YOU POSSIBLY FIT IN THIS FIC, SARA? THE ANSWER IS **MORE.**
> 
> The scene with Clarke raging and Bellamy battling through a glass tornado to calm her was one of the first scenes I imagined for this fic, and it was a relief to get to this point. You may have noticed the chapter count bump up to 18, because I got a lil enthusiastic with last minute scenes. This chapter was delayed because I had to do some rearranging in chapters 13-15 and didn't want to retcon anything in this one later.
> 
> "the dream is ended - this is the morning" is a C.S. Lewis quote. Jess and I are both Narnia nerds and as you might have guessed by now, this fic is very indulgent. 
> 
> [T-6 shuttles](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/T-6_shuttle) are pretty standard Jedi transportation. They small, they have hyperspace drives, and they look juuuuust snazzy enough, but not too snazzy, y'know, because they're monks, they can't have the sweetest rides in the galaxy. I don't think I mentioned it before, but Raven's ship is loosely based on the very sexy [ARC-170s](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Aggressive_ReConnaissance-170_starfighter) the Republic used in the Clone Wars. Now THAT is a snazzy ride. What FOOL replaced them with Tie fighters??? Speaking of snazzy rides, one last shout-out to [Fang fighters](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Fang_fighter), which I think are _not_ used by "mainland" Mandalore in canon but idgaf. The Mandalorians' single-minded focus on ass-kicking sure paid off there.
> 
> You guys have been WILDLY supportive so far and it has brought SO MANY smiles to my face. Thank you for trusting me enough to keep reading after that last chapter. I adore the positive feedback, but I'd also like to add a blanket invitation - if you have any criticism or suggestions regarding the high emotions running through this part of the story or there's a part of the grieving process that doesn't feel perfect to you, I'd welcome that feedback (kindly given pls I am but a humble shipper fool.) I'm really invested in making this story and all future stories as vivid and authentic as possible. (Authentic, she says, about a story with makeouts and space laser _pew pew_.) 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around. :) You can find me on tumblr as [kindclaws](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/).


	13. madi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** uh, I don't think there are any! besides, y'know, continued mourning, and allusions to bullying in kids.

 

  
**ARKADIA**

 

Glass crunches under the heel of Bellamy's boot. He steps back immediately and looks, dismayed, at the shards of stained glass on the ground. The cobblestones beneath them are black and slicked with oily rainbows like a fuel leak. His breathing reverberates in his helmet, too loud and too grating. A few steps in front of him, Miller stands on his tiptoes and raises the datapad above his head for a better signal. A dark yellow-gray cloud hangs over the horizon, casting an ashen haze over the abandoned town. Bellamy can't look away from it.

"If I'm reading the output from Monty's program right," Miller says over the comms. "If there were any survivors of the invasion hiding in this town, the fallout would have killed them already."

Bellamy doesn't answer, his eyes still sliding without his permission between the shattered glass from a nearby window to the storm in the distance to the shadows where the front doors of darkened houses have been kicked in. The rasp of his breathing makes Bellamy want to yank the helmet off and claw at his ears.

"This sector is too toxic," Miller continues, lowering the datapad with a sigh and striding back to Bellamy. "Come on. We should move on to the next one before those clouds catch up."

Bellamy doesn't move.

Miller's hand wraps around his upper arm, the rubbery material of their radiation suits squeaking together.

"Hey," he says, quieter. "It'll be okay. Monty says there are still parts of Arkadia that will be habitable, and it'll recover eventually. We'll figure it out. We'll get more drones to monitor the radiation storms - "

Bellamy shakes his head vigorously. He can't look away from those gray-yellow clouds.

"Hey man," Miller says, dropping the datapad carelessly and grabbing Bellamy's other shoulder to force him to look at him. His face appears washed out by the suit's visor and the storm's reflection in the glass. "Stay with me. We'll rebuild."

"What's there to rebuild?" Bellamy retorts.

"Whatever the hell we want," Miller says, like the answer is obvious.

"There's nothing _left_ ," Bellamy bites back, teeth gritted. "There's _no one_ left. Face it Miller, we have lost _everything!_ " His voice gets progressively louder until he is yelling those last words, his voice cracking under the emotion.

"I'm still here, dumbass!" Miller yells back. His hands dig into Bellamy's shoulders almost painfully. "Remember when we met?" Miller says, abruptly switching tracks. "I asked you why the fuck you'd picked me. What someone like you was doing in fucking _politics_. Do you remember what you said?"

"No," Bellamy says, just to be difficult. Because he does remember. But that was a lifetime ago, it can't possibly still apply.

"You said, _whatever the hell I want_ ," Miller presses on. "Things happened because you wanted them to happen more than anyone else wanted them not to happen. You _insisted_ laws into place. You fought tooth and nail for people. I need that guy on my side, Bellamy. Arkadia needs that guy."

"He didn't know anything," Bellamy snarls, shaking his head in protest. "That guy was a clueless idiot who conned his way into parliament so he could buy his illegal sister a spaceship. I _failed_ , Miller. I can't do anything right."

"Can you honestly tell me you're ready to give up right now?" Miller says.

Bellamy closes his eyes and lets his head slump forward until the front of the visor _clinks_ against a buckle on Miller's shoulder. His throat is thick with tears - he stops holding them back and feels the pressure ease like a damn breaking as the tears drop onto the inside of the glass. Miller just wraps his arms tighter around his shoulders and leans back against his weight.

"I don't know what to do next," Bellamy says hoarsely.

"Whatever the hell we want," Miller says gently. "And you, deep down, are an idealist nerd and deep down you want to take care of people and like, build furniture for them. So we're gonna make that possible."

Bellamy snorts.

And then slowly, slowly, raises his arms and hugs Miller back.

 

 

 

 

 

**ALDERAAN**

 

Starlight makes Alderaan's snowcapped mountain peaks glow silver. Monty remembers, distantly, a song his father used to sing about the moonlight glinting off the scales of purgils, of voyagers dipping their paddles into the silver stream of stars of a spiraling galaxy. He mouths the half-recalled words as he eases off the _Skyripper's_ acceleration and coasts the ship over the last mountain range, but they don't sound right.

Jasper stirs in the passenger seat as the high pitched hum of the _Skyripper's_ engine lowers to a low purr.

"We're here?" he asks sleepily. Monty startles to hear him speak. He hasn't said much in the last handful of days and whenever he has deigned to address Monty it's always been bitter and simmering with pain. Just now, with sleep still clinging to him, he sounded almost like Monty's best friend.

"Yeah," Monty says quietly, as though speaking louder will break the spell.

Jasper makes a soft noise in acknowledgement and buries his nose into his sweater. The soft blue glow of the dashboard glints off his horns.

"Too dark to see if any of the terraces are cleared," Jasper murmurs.

"S'fine," Monty says, still whispering. He squints through darkness at the small town up ahead, illuminated by only a few lone streetlamps. "I'm parking on the cantina."

"Gotta move it before the delivery guy comes in the morning," Jasper says. He must be waking up - his voice is a little louder now, and a little colder, flatter.

"I'll wake up early," Monty says. The bulk of the _Skyripper_ creaks in relief as he settles it on the cantina's landing pad with only the softest thud to rattle the building underneath.

Neither he nor Jasper say anything as they hike out of the streetlamp's weak range, past the town limits into a humid darkness interrupted only by lackluster crickets. Their feet find the old dirt path that winds haphazardly up the mountain's slope. Alderaan has no moon to shine down on them - when the path gets too steep Jasper wordlessly pulls out his datapad and lets the screen's glaring blue light illuminate their way. Monty is out of breath by the time the time the path twists into its final stretch, fading into the front steps of a small white house perched precariously between two flooded terraces. The harsh light of Jasper's datapad gleams off the solar panels on the roof as he flashes over the silent house. The front door is unlocked.

Jasper's footsteps thump softly against the old floor. Monty makes a quiet shushing sound, and in return Jasper takes off one of his shoes and throws it at his shins.

"Stop it," Monty hisses. He steps sideways to avoid the second shoe that comes flying and trips over a flowerpot, if the sound of grating ceramic is any indication. Monty curses and kneels down to right it, only to put his knee straight into another plant.

"Now who's being loud?" Jasper whispers back.

"It's not my fault she leaves her plants everywhere!" Monty hisses, and feels a little burst of spiteful victory when Jasper trips over another one only seconds later.

The only thing that stops them from erupting into another whispered argument is the click of a blaster's safety being turned off. They both freeze.

"What are you doing in my house?" a stern female voice asks from the darkness.

"Mom," Monty says tiredly. "It's us."

Hannah Green turns the lights on. Her face, all at once suspicious and hopeful, melts into a smile. She puts the blaster down on the kitchen table and rushes forward.

"My boys," she says, gathering both Monty and Jasper into her arms. He knows, logically, that she is not getting shorter every time he visits, but lately it feels that way. Monty buries his face in her shoulder and breathes in the familiar scent of peatmoss and ammonia.

"Sorry we woke you," Jasper mumbles. "We were trying to be quiet."

"So I could wake up in the morning and not know how much breakfast to make?" Hannah snaps, and reaches up to ruffle the hair between his horns. Then she presses a kiss to Monty's cheek and starts herding them both towards the staircase. "Come on, off to bed with you. I'll get fresh sheets - "

"Mom, we're pirates, we don't care about fresh sheets," Monty says.

"You will care about fresh sheets while you are under my roof," Jasper says in a high, warbling imitation of Hannah's headstrong approach to parenting, and both Monty and Hannah's jaws drop. In the time it takes them to gather their wits, Jasper has already sprinted for the stairs.

" _Jasper Jordan!_ " she cries out. Monty grabs her hand and squeezes. Neither of them speak as Jasper's footsteps recede down the hallway upstairs and a door closes behind him. Then, silence. Hannah's eyes are dark and piercing as they meet his.

"You look like shit. Finally ran headfirst into something you couldn't beat, huh?" she asks.

"How'd you know?" Monty croaks.

"Your father had the same look," Hannah says, the corners of her mouth turned down with displeasure. "We brought you to Alderaan so we'd never have to see that expression on your face. Are you done playing pirate now?"

"I wasn't _playing_ at anything," Monty snaps. In the house's silence his raised voice suddenly sounds deafening. Hannah takes a step back. Monty swallows. "I'm sorry, mom."

"Who died?" she asks.

"A lot of people," he says.

"That angry little captain of yours?"

"Don't know," Monty says, looking down at his feet. "She betrayed us, but also kind of saved us. It's complicated."

Hannah makes a soft, displeased noise in the back of her throat.

"This isn't the life I wanted for you two," she says at last. "I'm still holding out hope for you two to become respectable homeowners."

Monty thinks of the dream Miller's confessed to him and tries not to laugh.

"Yeah, well, you never know." He sighs heavily. "I think we'll be here for a few days, maybe a week. If there's uh, if there's any alcohol in the house, you should probably hide it. Jasper..."

"I'll handle it in the morning," Hannah says with a sigh. "Go to bed, Monty."

He kisses the frownlines on Hannah's temple. "Night, mom."

Monty pauses outside of his bedroom door. Jasper's, directly across the hall from his, is closed. They used to leave them open at night as kids so they could know when the other woke up. Monty wonders if Jasper is already asleep or staring up at a familiar ceiling. If he's hoping Monty will knock and say good night.

He goes into his own room and, after a moment of hesitation, leaves the door half-open.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

When Master Jackson came to escort Clarke home from Mandalore, he made it seem like it was urgent and all-important. And it is, maybe, for the first day. 

They bring Anya home with them, and Clarke doesn't know how she keeps herself from falling apart when she sees her Master's body lying still and cold again. It takes everything she has in her to keep a Jedi's composure. Throughout the entire funeral, through the elaborate rites that Master Gaia leads them in and the distant condolences Clarke's forced to hear from what feels like the entire Order, Clarke feels like her turmoil is written in vivid ink on her face. They're in a temple full of _Force-sensitives_ , for fuck's sake, and she's barely keeping herself from screaming herself hoarse at the sky. She doesn't know how no one seems to notice.

 _Jedi don't know how to mourn_ , she thinks to herself bitterly, as bright white flames swallow up Anya's body. Lexa, as Anya's previous Padawan, is standing next to her. Clarke takes a moment to prod at her in the Force, to trace the regal and unmoved profile of her face. Lexa is a good Jedi. Her emotions dissipate like the smoke from the pyre, released before they can fester, before she can linger in the memories of the Master that helped to raise them both. 

Clarke kind of hates her for it, but mostly she just pities her. She tries to remind herself how angry was she on Arkadia, when Lexa came only to try to take her away from the rebellion instead of offering it any help, but her anger quickly gives way to a sort of quiet numbness. 

She tries to be angry at Master Jackson, too, when he brings her to the Jedi Council and they question her for hours over the choices she made for Arkadia's rebellion, over her battle on the palace's front steps. She tells them about Octavia. About Bellamy and his mother making the dangerous, desperate choice to hide a Force-sensitive little girl so she wouldn't be taken away from them. Clarke _has_ to tell them, but when the Council immediately rallies together against the threat of the Sith, she almost regrets it.

Someone has gone to retrieve Ontari's body in the meantime. Her red lightsaber rests on a stool in the center of the Council chamber, and Clarke can't look at it without wanting to vomit. That thing killed Wells and Anya. It pulls at the Force like a black hole pulls at gravity. When the Council finally agrees to take a break from their deliberations, several hours and zero progress later, there is a headache so potent brewing behind Clarke's temples that she goes to her room and lies down in the dark for the rest of the day. 

The days spill into each other. 

Master Jackson comes to summon her to the Council chambers less and less. When Clarke realizes she's being stonewalled out of the investigation she demanded they make in the first place, she tears years and years of drawings off the walls of her room with the Force. She spends the next afternoon crying, trying to piece them back together. Master Jackson does not come back.

No one from the Council comes, except for Lexa. 

Clarke doesn't say very much as she matches Lexa's sedate, leisurely pace down the Temple's arching, sunlit hallways. In one of the alcoves her Padawan, a wiry thirteen year old named Aden, practices sparring with a class of Jedi children who are nearly old enough to be chosen for further training. 

"That's him," Lexa says, pointing her student out with pride as he spars a smaller brunette girl, as though Clarke couldn't pick out the only kid in the room who's growing out a Padawan braid. The girl is doing her best against an opponent who is both bigger and more experienced than her. Aden parries the hit she tries to land on him with her long wooden staff, and sweeps her legs out from underneath her with a low kick. Clarke winces as the girl lands heavily on her back and makes a sound like a half-feral animal. "And that's Madi," Lexa continues. She gives Clarke a significant look. "She's like your friend's sister. The one he hid."

The way she talks about Bellamy and Octavia makes Clarke retreat into herself. But she doesn't say anything. Outside the Council chamber, relaxing as they are by the sparring class, it's easier to pretend Lexa might still be her friend, and not someone who walked away.

“She’s swinging too slow,” Clarke murmurs, tracking Madi’s movements. She reaches for the girl in the Force. It’s instinctive, like reaching out a hand when meeting someone new. Madi is bright and sharp in the Force, like a thorny plant, like a cornered animal, her frustration with Aden’s victory against her spilling everywhere. Clarke winces and pulls back her senses. “She’s angry, too.”

“She’s only been in the creche for a few years,” Lexa muses. “She wasn’t found until she was nearly eight years old, which of course explains the utter lack of discipline.”

Clarke gives Lexa a sharp look. She doesn’t notice.

“Up!” Lexa calls out. As soon as her voice rings out over the alcove, every child snaps to attention, their eyes fixed on her, many adoring and awed. Madi, Clarke notices, is sulking. She’s the last to put down her staff and step out of a combat stance. The Force moves sluggishly around her.

Clarke watches her as Lexa dismisses the class. Most of the other children fall into groups of two or three, hoisting their staffs over their shoulder and giggling together as they run off for their break. No one looks at Madi. No one even approaches her, except for one Twi’lek boy who shoves her shoulder as he passes.

“Madi!” Lexa calls.

“I didn’t start it,” Madi instantly snarls, glaring at the retreating back of the boy who pushed her.

“I don’t care who started it,” Lexa says dismissively. “Come here. I’d like you to meet my friend Clarke.”

Madi approaches sullenly. Both she and Clarke look askance at Lexa, wondering what this is about.

“Madi,” Lexa says evenly. “This is Padawan Clarke. I think you two should get acquainted.”

“What is this?” Clarke demands, feeling anger rise up in her like a sudden wave. Madi says nothing and watches her with accusing brown eyes.

Lexa’s face is impassive, her cool in the Force unbroken.

“Just an introduction,” she says innocently. “It’s your decision if it grows into something more.”

“Master Anya died less than two weeks ago,” Clarke says, spitting fury. “And you may have already let go, but I _haven’t_.”

“One of the best ways to heal a broken bond is to form a new one,” Lexa says smoothly. “Of course, you still have to complete your Trials, and you’re much younger than Jedi usually are when they take on their first Padawan, but Madi is only ten. All I’m suggesting is that you start getting to know each other, and in a few years – “

“Is no one going to ask me what I think?” Madi asks quietly.

“ – did you even _care_ when you walked away and you _left_ us?” Clarke rages.

“ – _in a few years_ ,” Lexa tries to repeat.

“ _Hey_!” Madi yells out, drowning out both of them. Clarke closes her mouth instantly and gives Madi an apologetic look. It’s not the poor kid’s fault Lexa’s dragged her into an open wound. Madi’s brow is scrunched up in a frown so deep that if Clarke’s mother were here she’d press her thumb into the furrows and say _your face will get stuck like that_. The certainty of it, the memory of her mother, suddenly hits Clarke like a blow to the face.

“I’m sorry, Madi,” Clarke says. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s fine,” Madi says curtly. “I already know no one wants to pick me.”

Whatever Clarke was expecting, it wasn’t that. She physically reels back at the words. By the time she’s caught her breath again, by the time her brain is forming words more coherent than a single unspeakable wave of sympathy, Madi’s already spun around on her heel and is walking away as fast as her short legs can take her.

Neither she or Lexa speak for a moment, shamed into silence by a child’s pain.

“That – “ Lexa begins. Clarke jabs a finger in her direction.

“Shut up. You’ve said enough,” she hisses, and she walks away, her footsteps echoing on stone.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

The palace never felt like home, but it’s worse now with Wells gone forever. Despite the comfort of Miller at his back, Bellamy feels like he’s floundering through the aftermath of Azgeda’s retreat.

The only feeling of peace Bellamy gets is when he locks the door of his chambers and crawls into bed. The blaster still goes on his nightstand. A quick calculation on the datapad tells him that his evening has synced up with morning at the Temple on Coruscant. He pulls up Clarke’s name and stares at it until the letters cease to have meaning. Then, before he can lose the courage, he puts through a call.

Clarke answers instantaneously, as though she was waiting.

Her image flickers with bright blue streaks and then solidifies, somewhat. She's lying on her side, knees curled up, hair spilling over a pillow that fades out of the hologram's range. Her body looks unsettling floating in the air by the bed, so Bellamy shuffles backwards with the projector until she's projected just above the other side of the bed. He pulls his knees up too, unconsciously mirroring her, and thinks that he could pretend she's here, lying on the blankets next to him, if her image wasn't tinged blue and wavering slightly as their respective planets hurtle through space light years apart.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" Bellamy asks. Her eyes look wide and alert, so probably not.

"I've been up for a while," Clarke says. Her voice, even dull and tired as it is, loosens some of the tension that lingers in Bellamy's shoulders. He tucks one hand under the pillow supporting his head. "I just haven't actually found the motivation to get out of bed. It's a side effect of the Council deciding they're going to bore me to death for disobeying orders."

"Nothing?" he asks. "Have you heard anything about the search for Octavia, at least?"

"I'm sorry, Bellamy," she says. "I don't think they'd tell me anything, if they did find her trail. But I've been keeping an ear out for gossip."

"Thanks," he says hoarsely. He sighs and massages the skin around his eyes, which are feeling the strain of too many hours staring at datapad screens trying to organize aid for Arkadia and not enough sleep.

"News on your end?" Clarke asks. "The evacuation fleet?"

"They came home," Bellamy says. "Well, some of them. Most of the civilians chose to go stay with relatives in other systems until we can figure out how badly the drilling damaged Arkadia. Some of the rebels who were protecting them…”

He trails off.

"How many?" Clarke asks. _Of course_ she would know exactly what he’s not saying.

"18 dead," Bellamy says. His eyes close under the wave of grief and regret that overwhelms him in that moment.

"82 alive," Clarke says, and he looks at her with some surprise. She raises her eyebrows, tucks a hand under her chin as she shifts in her own bed. "You did good, Bellamy."

"82," he repeats, his voice breaking. "82, plus Miller and Jasper and Monty and I. Plus the few hundred people we've found scattered in a handful of bunkers that Azgeda didn't find and crack open, plus a few stragglers like that little girl Charlotte who managed to avoid the patrols _and_ the radiation storms. Everyone else has just - they've vanished. This is all that's left. Wells trusted me with protecting Arkadia, and out of a whole planet, I have a few hundred people left."

"You don't have to do this alone, Bellamy," Clarke promises. She says that, but she’s not here. Her hand reaches out, blue and flickering, and passes right through his, like a ghost. He looks at his hand bisecting the hologram of hers, and his fingers curl involuntarily, even though he knows there's nothing there to hold. "And if we have to rebuild Arkadia with only a few hundred people, then that's what we'll do. And don't forget, we promised land to the Eligius convicts who helped us run raids on the mining sites, so we have another hundred or so settlers there too."

Bellamy snorts.

"I guess there's that," he says. They fall into silence. Clarke's transponder is not quite good enough to transmit the sound of her breathing cleanly - it crackles with static when her exhales are too deep.

"Do you have a list of the dead yet?" Clarke asks quietly. 

"Yes," he says, just as quiet. He was hoping she wouldn't ask. He hesitates. "Monroe is on it. She flew her starfighter into a battlecruiser to clear them a path to hyperspace."

Clarke's hand tightens on empty space and phases through Bellamy's again.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says. Her eyes are unfocused and far away, maybe, like his, replaying the events of that day. Maybe imagining a universe where the Mandalorian fleet arrived in time to help, or a dozen other things went right instead of wrong. “How is Harper?”

“Diving into her work.”

“She and Raven could compare notes,” Clarke says dryly. Then, silence. Bellamy wonders if he could fall asleep to the static-filled sound of her breathing, if it would be enough white noise to drown out the spirals his thoughts inevitably fall into. "Send me the list?"

"No."

" _Bellamy_ ," she warns.

"It's not okay for me to beat myself up over the dead, but you're allowed?" he snips back. 

"Just send me the list," she says in a small, defeated voice.

"We'll see," Bellamy says, which means he'll probably drag his feet as long as possible and then give in and send it, because he knows knowing is marginally better than not knowing. He casts desperately around his mind for something else to say that will keep the conversation going and isn't extraordinarily depressing. He doesn't want the call to end yet but there's nothing to say. "So nothing's happened at all on your end?"

Clarke thinks for a moment.

"Lexa tried to set me up with a Padawan," she says slowly.

"Didn't work?"

"She's a little too young," Clarke says. "So am I, actually. Also she ran away from me."

"Oh," Bellamy says. "Would you want a Padawan?"

Clarke curls in tighter on herself and Bellamy regrets asking, but then she answers him.

"I don't know. Anya seemed like she always knew what to do, so it feels like that's what a Master should be like, and I know I'm nowhere near. But..." Clarke tucks her hand under her cheek and looks at him softly. "Do you remember when we were sleeping at Raven's and you told me it was unfair that I got to know my family when the other Jedi didn't? Just because my mother is a Duchess?"

"Yeah," Bellamy says with only a minor twinge of pain. It feels like that conversation happened a lifetime ago.

"Lexa says Madi's family hid her," Clarke says. "Like..."

"Yeah," Bellamy says again, hoping she doesn't say the name. Clarke gets the hint and moves on.

"I thought about that conversation a lot," Clarke says. "And about the Jedi's stance on love, and I'm not sure anyone else could understand Madi. She feels hurt to me. The other Jedi look down on her for it. What if no one picks her?"

"What _does_ happen to the kids that aren't picked?" Bellamy says, suddenly realizing he's never thought about it and afraid of what the answer might be. Clarke makes an uncertain sound.

"The Order finds them a placement in the agricultural corps, apparently, but I don't know much about it," she says.

Bellamy hums consideringly at that. They think in silence for a while.

"You never actually answered if you'd want a Padawan or not," Bellamy says.

"Probably not," Clarke says quietly. "I don't want to let someone else down."

Bellamy turns his head to look at her hologram so quickly he gets whiplash.

"You wouldn't," he says. "They'd be lucky to have you."

"I can't protect anyone," she whispers, eyes wide and haunted with the same ghosts that keep him up.

"You protected me," Bellamy says, and it's not until the words are out there that he realizes how strikingly true they are. Something in his chest relaxes, some pain he'd started to get used to. He exhales roughly and wishes Clarke were really here, wishes he could tuck the stray piece of hair on her cheek behind her ear. "And I didn't make it easy on you, either," Bellamy adds with a morbid huff of laughter, and Clarke cracks a small smile. "I fell off a building."

Bellamy starts to laugh, and Clarke turns her face into her pillow, whining in her throat. After a minute they're both laughing, confused and awed by it and fully aware that _nothing_ about their situation is funny.

"I shouldn't have laughed so hard at that," Clarke gasps, clutching at her stomach. "That was an awful time for you."

"Could have been worse," Bellamy says. "Could have been a shorter building. Raven could have been a bad driver."

Clarke smiles tiredly at him, and then it slowly fades.

"You should sleep," Clarke says. "And I should... get up and... be useful."

"All right," Bellamy sighs. He takes a moment to memorize the planes of her face and the way her hair tumbles over the pillow before raising a hand and waving. "Good night. Or, morning, for you."

"Good night Bellamy," she says, and then the transmission cuts out. But Bellamy lies awake and unmoving in bed for a long time, not ready to sleep despite his exhaustion, and he's willing to bet that on her end, Clarke doesn't immediately drag herself out of bed either.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Since she’s grounded on Coruscant with the threat of much more severe punishment if she leaves the planet’s atmosphere without permission, Clarke’s best retreat becomes Raven’s apartment. She comes most evenings just as Raven is waking up for her shift, if she’s not flying short roundtrips to Arkadia to deliver more relief supplies. They eat breakfast together (or dinner, it’s hard to differentiate, especially since Raven has no qualms about eating leftover takeout for breakfast.) Clarke usually spends the night in Raven’s bed, since she sleeps better away from the cacophony of hundreds of Force-users in one building and away from the painful memories the Temple brings to the forefront of her mind. She wakes up when Raven gets home from her shift, and they talk, or they pull hoods over their heads and walk through Coruscant’s underbelly looking for a fight, or Raven tinkers on her never-ending projects and Clarke stares at a wall.

"Are you cleaning?" Clarke asks out of the blue, one day in Raven's apartment, as she looks around and sees noticeably less scrap metal on every available horizontal surface than usual.

"Can't a girl try to overcome her hoarding tendencies in peace?" Raven quips back, and Clarke lets it lie.

She worries that she’s not very good company, because she cries a lot, and she’s always tired, and Raven’s never been particularly fond of overwhelming displays of emotion. Raven’s approach to her own grief, so far, has been to pick up extra shifts at the mechanic shop instead of sleeping. She says she naps on the hyperspace flights, but Clarke has no way of knowing and Raven refuses to discuss it any further than that.

Sometimes Clarke can’t rein in her grief. Sometimes it spills out, like blood from an injury that just won’t clot.

"I miss them, Raven," Clarke says pitifully. She's distantly aware that she sounds like a whiny child, but for a moment she's too gone to care. She buries her face in her arms, breathing in the acrid smell of fuel that always lingers in Raven's apartment, and battles against the wave of melancholy that threatens to crash over her again. Raven's hand rests on the nape of her neck, brushing the tangled hair there. Clarke hasn't really taken care of it since Bellamy carefully untangled it in a too-clean shower. Maybe her indifference is an insult to his hard work.

"Shh."

"I know it's stupid," Clarke says anyway. "I only saw Wells a few times a year anyway, and half the time I was on a mission with Anya we were too undercover to even holomail each other. I've gone entire months without seeing or talking to him or knowing what he's up to. But this is - "

"It's not stupid," Raven says firmly.

"It's different," Clarke whispers. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. "It's different because now I can't pretend that he's okay. And there won't be another time where we meet again. He's just gone."

Raven's repertoire of emotional comfort seems limited to soft soothing sounds and telling her that she's not being stupid. Weirdly, it makes Clarke feel better to hear that, more than any pretty speeches would comfort her. At least she knows the waver in Raven's voice is genuine. That she's as lost in the face of grief and their failure as Clarke is.

"I think you should stay here tonight," Raven says eventually, her hand still a warm, constant weight on the back of her head. Clarke sniffles and nods, surrendering to the idea instantly.

"Thanks," she says with an exhale of relief. The Temple - with its fluxes in the Force and the Padawan braids around every corner and the empty room next to hers - reminds her too much of Anya and everything else she's lost. It's less painful to be here with Raven with the smell of their takeout still lingering in the air, the quiet whir of CPUs in the kitchen as her astromech runs some simulations, the carbon scorch on the ceiling that Clarke recognizes from the first time she tried helping Raven repair something. She wriggles around on the couch, turning over onto her back, and points at the black starburst they couldn't scrub off the ceiling.

"Do you remember that day?" Clarke asks sleepily. Raven follows the trajectory of her finger and snorts when she sees the carbon scorch.

"How could I forget?" Raven asks dryly. It's good to see her smile again, even if it looks cracked and uncertain, tired under the weight of Raven's worry for her.

"That was a good day," Clarke says. She lets her hand rest on her chest and feels her eyelids start to drop. She expects Raven to tease her a bit, continue their long-running banter about it, remind her that explosion triggered an investigation from the engineering guild. Instead Raven strokes her hair again and speaks so softly that later Clarke will wonder if she dreamt it, if she remembers at all.

"Yeah," Raven says. "I guess I'll miss it."

Clarke opens her mouth to ask what she means, but a yawn interrupts her and lasts so long that by the time it finishes she only has the vague idea that she's forgotten something. Raven pulls her to her feet and together they stumble to her bedroom. Clarke is asleep as soon as her head hits Raven's pillow, and doesn’t hear the front door close behind her.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Bellamy wakes instantly when hands touch his arm. He scrambles to sit upright in bed and gropes blindly at his side for the blaster that should be there before he registers that it's only Harper. Even in the dim light her eyes still look red and swollen from crying, but her gaze is proud and alert.

Bellamy exhales heavily and flops back onto mattress.

"You scared me," he says, and rubs at his eyes. "Is it my turn for storm watch already?" Until Monty returns and can perfect his weather predicting algorithms, they've been posting manual watches too. Most of the remaining rebels hate them, but Bellamy kind of likes the silence.

"No," Harper says. "An Azgedan ship just landed in the courtyard."

Bellamy's heart rate, which had just been slowing again, shoots straight back up. He leaps to his feet.

"No aggression yet," Harper continues, watching him evenly. "He says he wants to speak with you.

Bellamy frowns as he processes this.

"What do you think?" he asks at last.

"What have we got to lose?" Harper says bitterly.

She falls into step with him as he holsters his blaster and steps outside the tent. Bellamy flinches at the touch of a light rain on his skin but it's only clear rainwater, not the black acid rain that Monty has told them to watch out for. His eyes adjust to the morning light as they walk through the courtyard to the palace's landing pad.

There's an Azgedan ship waiting for them all right, shark-like and sharp lines. It's a small one, a little shorter than the Skyripper. Two figures stand on the loading ramp: a tall, long-haired Azgedan man in a loose tunic and an armoured bodyguard who looks significantly more antsy about the suspicious rebels pointing blasters at them. The tall Azgedan man descends down the ramp as Bellamy approaches. His pale silver hair is tangled and greasy and does little to disguise his origins. The blue skin and the markings on his face would give him away as Azgeda anywhere in the galaxy.

"Are you the Senator?" he asks as Bellamy approaches.

"Why is it any of your business?" Bellamy responds, bristling. The visitor's tunic slowly darkens with rainwater and clings to his muscled body, but he seems utterly unperturbed by both the cold and Bellamy's less than friendly approach.

"You went up against my mother and survived," the visitor says. Bellamy stiffens. Behind him, he hears Miller quietly swear. "So of course, I'm intrigued."

"Get off my planet, Sithspawn," Bellamy hisses. The visitor doesn't even flinch at the name.

"You may address me as Prince Roan," the visitor says, gracefully touching his fingertips to his exposed collarbone. "I have no loyalty to the royal house of Azgeda - Queen Nia exiled me years ago when she found a better Force-sensitive heir. Tell me, Senator Blake. How were you planning to quell the chaos that would erupt between the Azgedan loyalists when you defeated their Queen?"

"Don't care," Bellamy says in a clipped voice. "They can figure it out themselves. Don't call me Senator."

"The Holonet thinks you’re a hero with a heart of gold, Senator," Roan continues, completely ignoring him. He extends his hand out as an offering. "Are you going to disappoint them? We don’t have to be enemies. I want to take down my mother as much as you do.”

Bellamy looks down at the outstretched hand.

“What are you offering?” he asks.

“A motley collection of disgruntled bounty hunters and the like,” Roan says with a smile full of pearly white teeth. “Back up my bid to the throne after all this, Senator, and they’re yours.”

"Why would I be interested?" Bellamy asks flatly.

Roan casts an overly casual look around the empty palace, with signs of Azgedan occupation still lingering, with the corners no one will go into. Bellamy feels like he is being peeled back, exposed and raw in all the wrong ways.

"From what I've heard," Roan says, "You can't really afford to be picky right now."

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Clarke lies on her back in the grass, the damp of the soil having seeped into her robes and chilled her body hours ago. Her face is turned up to the sky, but her eyes are closed to the streaks of orange and pink the setting sun is painting across Coruscant's clouds. There's a wind today, the ghost of a storm passing further south on the planet. The fronds of grass that Clarke's crushed under her weight dance slightly with the breeze, the stalks bent over to tickle her cheeks, her exposed wrists. The ones still standing tall around her wave more furiously, the wind whispering through them like the Force through a kyber crystal.

That sound, and the sound of the door opening and releasing the laughter of children into the courtyard gardens, makes Clarke drift into a memory, where she and Wells are barely taller than this grass and they're standing in Arkadia's gardens, trying to whistle with wide blades of grass. He can do it, he can make an ungodly screech that makes the gardener discretely keeping an eye on them wince, but Clarke blows on her blade until it's wet and ragged and can't get a single whistle out of it.

"It's only fair," Wells says with a laugh, trying to tickle the back of her neck with another blade. "You're already a badass Jedi warrior. You can't be amazing at everything."

"I'm not a badass warrior," Clarke gripes, slapping away the itch on her neck. "I'm a healer."

"And I'm just Wells," he says with a shrug, already crouching down to pat down some soil they've dislodged.

"Don't say just like that," Clarke says, going off-script. She isn't saying it as a nine year old. This isn't part of the memory anymore. She's saying it as Clarke ten years into the future, as Clarke who felt him die just out of her reach. But she can't reach back into time like that - she's a bystander in her own dream. Wells keeps rooting through the musty soil, humming as it gets under his fingernails, like he hasn't heard her say anything. The wind keeps whistling through the grass on its own, and the laughter of children grows sharper, and twigs snap somewhere in her vicinity.

Clarke reluctantly opens her eyes.

"Are you hiding?" Madi asks, in the very loud voice that children use when they have found someone who they have already decided must be hiding, and want to make sure anyone else listening knows it.

Clarke lets her head loll to the side so she can look at the intruder on her introspection. Madi is peering at her with her head tilted, her hair a wild mass of curls and her face muddy already, though she can't have come outside more than a few minutes ago.

"It's almost impossible to actually hide in a temple full of Force-sensitives," Clarke says vaguely. Madi looks a little displeased that she hasn't gotten a bigger reaction out of her. Clarke watches her dig a small rock out of the dirt with the toe of her boot, and then return back to staring at Clarke. "I'm not that interesting, am I?"

"Master Gaia says you're experiencing strong negative emotions," Madi says matter of factly. "And that we should leave you alone."

The complete lack of departure from Madi after she says this does not imply a great deal of confidence in Gaia's orders. Clarke feels the weight of her gaze linger. The distant, dream-like haze of her meditation is fading. The present is making itself known, as sharp and demanding as the bent stalk that digs into Clarke's hip.

"My Master and my best friend died a few days ago," Clarke explains, when it becomes clear Madi isn't about to leave. It's been more than a few days now. It's been a few weeks. But it doesn't feel like any time has passed. Clarke feels just as raw as she did at the funeral. "And a lot of innocent people lost their home. I'm mad at the Jedi Council for deciding not to do anything about it."

"Why?" Madi asks.

Clarke doesn't know how to explain the mind-numbing banality of beaurocracy, so she doesn't attempt it.

"No one could agree on what to do, I guess," she says at last. The laughter of Madi's creche rings out from distant corners of the courtyard. The other children sound like they're making the most of the time between their classes, playing tag between the gardens. "I'm not a lot of fun to be around right now," Clarke tries. "Don't you want to join your friends?"

"They're not friends. They don't really like me," Madi says, and finally she steps forward, stomping on the grass in her way with her untied boots, until she's trampled an area big enough for her to lie down next to Clarke, close enough that they could reach out, but carefully avoiding touching her. Clarke doesn't say anything as the girl settles into the grass and joins her in staring up at the sky. "This is pretty boring," Madi says after a while, when barely a handful of birds or starships breaks the unending view of the evening sky. "Is it supposed to help?"

"Not sure yet," Clarke says.

Another long silence, while Madi squirms around in the grass, trying to find a comfortable position. Anya used to make Clarke try to meditate upside down, arguing that she'd need to be able to concentrate no matter what environment the universe threw at her. Imagining her try to convince Madi to do that now brings the ghost of a smile to Clarke's face.

"We could talk," Madi suggests.

"Sure," Clarke says distantly. "What do you want to talk about?"

The insects in the courtyard continue their ceaseless song as Madi falls silent for a while, apparently stumped by that question.

"My village hid me whenever the Jedi came looking for kids with powers," Madi says eventually, unprompted. She says it matter-of-factly, but the Force doesn't lie. Clarke can feel the tremor of uncertainty in Madi, the projection of uncaring distance.

"Do you miss them?"

"No," Madi lies.

"My friend Bellamy had to hide his sister under the floor," Clarke says, because Madi's shoulders have climbed up to her ears and she feels stiff and withdrawn in the Force, and it seems like the right thing to do, especially when Clarke sees how closely she's paying attention. "At first it was because their planet didn't have a lot of food, and people were only allowed to have one child. But later, it was because they realized Octavia was Force-sensitive, and they knew the Jedi would want to raise her away from them."

"What happened to her?" Madi asks, her eyes rapt.

Clarke realizes she can't tell Madi the truth circulating among the adults. At best it would drive the wedge between her and her classmates who have grown up in the Order deeper. At worst it would destroy her.

"Her brother worked very hard to get a job with my friend Wells, and he saved up enough money to buy her a starship so she could become a pirate," Clarke says.

Madi props herself up on her elbow and stares up at the sky with a much more wistful look than before.

"A pirate!" she says in low, reverent tones. "I didn't know I could be that. I think I'd make a better pirate than a Jedi."

"It's not that simple, Madi," Clarke says, and hates herself a little for the way Madi's eyes go dark and guarded again, the excitement she'd glimpsed in her for just a moment retreating back into a familiar hiding place. "What I mean," Clarke tries, "is that our connection with the Force makes us powerful, and some people want to use that for evil. It's dangerous for Jedi to be alone."

"Octavia was fine," Madi says stubbornly.

"She was for a while," Clarke agrees reluctantly, her heart falling, and carefully considers how to tell this story. She's in too deep to back out now, and she doesn't want to lie to Madi, but - she's not welcome with her peers. Clarke doesn't want to add to the fears that keep her on the outskirts. "But then an evil Queen invaded her planet," she says. "People were very scared and hungry. We tried to fight, but there weren't a lot of us. So Octavia made a deal with the evil Queen. She would surrender to her if she left the rest of the planet alone. And the Queen agreed, and took all her soldiers and Octavia with her when she left, and no one's seen them since."

Madi mulls on this for a while.

"Does that mean she turned evil too?" Madi asks suddenly, and Clarke blinks. "Wouldn't she have tried to run away by now, if she was still on the good side?"

"I don't know, Madi," Clarke says. "People are... complicated. And sometimes they're very, very hurt, and they do bad things because of that, and it's hard to tell if they're heroes or villains."

"Being a Jedi wouldn't have stopped Octavia from making a deal to save her planet," Madi insists.

"It wouldn't have been _her_ planet," Clarke says, and then breaks off, her head spinning, because she doesn't know what to do with this argument. She's a Jedi, but Mandalore is still _hers_ , even when Sundari echoes with the absence of her father. Given the choice to turn to the Dark side to save everyone on Mandalore, or all of Arkadia - Clarke can't promise she wouldn't see the appeal, the elegance of a single life sacrificed to save many. 

The only thing that her Jedi upbringing changes is the awareness that it wouldn't stop at just one life sacrificed. The Dark side doesn't make righteous bargains. The Sith don't suddenly decide they've had enough bloodshed and chaos and pack up and go home after a while. With them it's all or nothing.

Clarke doesn't want to admit it to Bellamy, but she knows Octavia will surface eventually, and she knows he might not recognize her anymore then.

"She wouldn't have been alone - " Clarke argues, but her voice sounds small and distant from her.

" _You_ were alone," Madi says, and Clarke's mouth abruptly closes on whatever argument she was about to give. The pressure of the tears she hasn't been able to cry builds behind her eyes again, and some of it must leak into the Force because Madi immediately reaches out and touches her arm, gently. "I'm sorry," Madi says in a small voice. "I didn't mean to make you more sad."

"You didn't," Clarke says, rubbing at her temples. "You just ask really hard questions," she says, and she makes an effort to smile at Madi. The girl pulls her hand back and doesn't look convinced. The Force swirls around in her small, aggravated circles. "Now I know how my Master felt," Clarke says with a little laugh. "She would tell me what to do, and I'd ask _why_ after every single instruction until she wanted to maroon me on the next planet we visited."

The corners of Madi's lips twitch into what appears to be a reluctant smile. She rolls over onto her stomach, snapping stalks of grass in her way, kicking her muddy feet up into the air.

"What's the coolest planet you've ever seen?" she asks, propping her fist under her chin, and Clarke wracks her brain for a good story that doesn't hurt to tell. It's easier than she expects, and she finds herself shifting on her side to get more comfortable in the grass, settling in for a long conversation. The sunset is long gone when Madi's creche-master comes hollering for her, gathering his students for dinner. Clarke sits up and blinks up at the sky. It suddenly occurs to her that on Arkadia, in the depths of the forest, she could have seen the stars coming out. On Coruscant there's only the dull blur of light pollution from the unending city. 

It's suddenly very, very important to her that Madi should see stars again one day, and lots of them. She feels an unexpected loss as Madi pulls herself to her feet and dusts the dirt off her tunic. There's a twig in her hair.

"Can I ask you something?" Clarke says, before they go, and waits for Madi to give her an affirming hum. "Did Lexa send you to talk to me again?"

She's suddenly realized that she desperately does not want the only conversation she's had in the Temple since she's returned that hasn't made her want to rip her hair out to be the result of a machination. She's prepared to hold her breath for the answer, but Madi doesn't make her wait for long.

"Nah," she says, and the Force doesn't lie, so Clarke smiles, and lets the warmth of it carry her into the evening.

"I made a friend," Clarke mumbles that night as she crawls onto Raven's couch and lays her head down next to her friend's lap.

"Really," Raven says, less of a question and more of an expression of utmost skepticism. Clarke can feel the warmth of Raven's thigh against the top of her head and it feels nice, safe. Even more so when Raven's hand leaves her project long enough to stroke her hair once or twice. She closes her eyes.

"It's the kid that Lexa wanted me to take on as Padawan," Clarke says. "It turns out she's actually a pretty cool kid. Clever. A little lonely."

"A kid?" Raven asks, using her 'I think I'm allergic to children but I've never actually gotten close enough to find out' voice.

"Yeah, well," Clarke mumbles, her sleepiness making her less eloquent than she'd like. "Right now all the adult Jedi are doing an excellent job of making me feel like I'm the Order's greatest disappointment, so..."

"Yeah, when you put it that way," Raven mutters. The hand stroking her hair stills. “You could always talk to Lincoln. He used to be a Jedi, right?”

Clarke buries her face in the scratchy fabric of Raven’s couch and guns vaguely.

“Okay,” she says, muffled. “I think I will. Tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

 

**TONDC TRADING POST**

 

A loud series of clanging sounds from the trading post's dock make Niylah look up from her work. The station seems to shiver underneath her. She frowns and glances down the aisle at her inventory droid.

"G-NA, she calls out, "Are we supposed to have a shipment today?"

"We are not," G-NA responds. "The next shipment is due to arrive in 11 standard hours, by which time the galactic date will no longer fall under the parameters of 'today'."

"Hmm," Niylah says consideringly. She stands up and brushes her head tentacles back over her shoulder. "I'll go check it out. You make sure the treasury is locked."

Niylah strides towards the dock's airlock. A powered-down security droid stands silent and dark along her way, one of five gifts from Monty after the last time her stores got raided by pirates. Even slumped over in standby, the droid is nearly two heads taller than her, and Niylah is by no means short by Nautloan standards. She raps her knuckles against the droid's metal chest for good luck.

She takes up a stance by the airlock's control and presses the intercom. She hears footsteps on the other side of the door, multiple sets, by the sound of it.

"Store's closed," Niylah says in a bored voice. "If you have an emergency we can discuss my overtime fees."

Her visitors do not reply. Niylah is about to tell them to go away when the ruby-coloured lightsaber erupts through the door. Niylah screams and stumbles backwards. There is a clatter of metal joints as G-NA runs over to see what is going on as the airlock doors are shredded apart. Shadowy figures pour in through the sides around a lone silhouette with the lightsaber.

A pair of terrible eyes meet Niylah's.

" _Wek op_ ," the voice says. Behind Niylah, all five security droids hum with power as they're woken up, and for the first time, she is not comforted by the red glow of their eyes.

She didn't activate them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did everyone think of the OUTRAGEOUSLY SITH-Y VIBES Sheidheda was giving off in that last episode???? Jedi Madi confirmed, Jroth can't take this away from me.
> 
> This chapter's alternate title is "so many depression naps". Also I'm starting a poll on whether or not virtual bedsharing counts towards this fic's ample bedsharing tally.
> 
> [Purrgils](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Purrgil) are space whales that show up in the Rebels show, because the seafaring vibe wasn't strong enough.
> 
> I discovered halfway through this chapter that [Alderaan](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Alderaan) ~~doesn't~~ didn't have a moon!!! Probably bc George Lucas forgot to include it when Han and co show up and find rubble. Alderaan also had a rainforest, which makes it like the only Star Wars planet I know of that had more than one (1) biome. Idk if they had agricultural terraces, but they would fit the climate and the Greens were from Agro Station so I made them farmers of something.... wet. Rice or taro maybe?
> 
> I only discovered that Jedi cannot join the Council without having trained at least one Padawan well after I finished the first draft of this chapter. Since Aden is Lexa's first Padawan she shouldn't be a Master yet, but idgaf. Hope everyone enjoyed Madi's introduction!
> 
> I've cast Niylah as a [Nautolan](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Nautolans) because of her braided hair. They're an aquatic species with hella sparkly eyes and tentacles that flow back from the forehead like dreadlocks. The photo reference in that link is not a good one - Kit Fisto is [way hotter](https://pa1.narvii.com/6288/686c71a3b2f1b9060972b319503957f5d193ac1a_hq.gif) in the Clone Wars (flashing gif warning.)
> 
> Additionally, I should have done this shout out like a month ago but tumblr users [charmanderdiyoza](https://charmanderdiyoza.tumblr.com/post/185110724215/charmanderdiyoza-luminous-beings-a-star-wars) and [julibernardo](https://julibernardo.tumblr.com/post/184511223767/moodboard-for-luminous-beings-by-kindclaws) (who liked this fic before it was "cool") made edits for this fic and I am how you say............. very emotional about them. I really appreciate it, guys!
> 
> Thanks everyone for your enthusiasm!! I'm on tumblr as [kindclaws](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com).


	14. order versus chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** Some injury and some medical care.

 

**ALDERAAN**

 

In the morning Monty wakes to the sound of wolf-cats howling in the mountains and the deafening silence that follows when you’ve gotten used to sleeping on a starship flight. The machine hum was awful at first but it grew on him. He blinks at the ceiling, feeling surprisingly well-rested, and thinks about how comfortable his childhood bed is even though his heels are hanging off the end. He wishes he could sleep in more often –

He sits straight up and bolts to the window. The _Skyripper_  is parked innocently in an unflooded terrace.

“Shit,” Monty swears. He scrambles to put on a shirt right-side-out and ducks out of his bedroom. Jasper’s door is open. His bed is rumpled and empty, the blanket perilously hanging down to the floor. Monty’s feet _thump_ a rapid drumbeat past it and down the staircase.

“Morning,” Hannah says. She raises an eyebrow at her son's hurried manner. 

“I meant to wake up early and bring the _Skyripper_ over, sorry,” Monty says with a wince. “Thanks for going into town and getting it.”

“I didn’t,” Hannah says. “Jasper did. Breakfast?”

Monty blinks.

“Oh,” he says, a little taken aback. "Um, actually, before I forget another thing - "

He wanders back upstairs to find his pack and returns to the kitchen with an armful of jars of dirt. Hannah’s eyes widen with interest as he carefully sets them down on the table, trying to keep them from tumbling out and breaking.

“Are these for me?” she asks, coming closer to peer at them.

“If you don’t mind taking a look,” Monty says. “They’re soil samples from Arkadia. They’re… not gonna lie, they’re pretty radioactive. I was hoping you’d have ideas on undoing some of the damage.”

“I’ll take a look,” Hannah says distantly. Already her face has that disconnected glaze she gets when she's up against a problem, like when the crops aren't growing right and she has an excuse to run all sorts of tests on them. She turns away from Monty, flapping a hand at him dismissively. “Grab some breakfast and go talk to your dad.”

Monty presses a grateful kiss to her temples and dances out of the spatula’s reach before escaping with an egg roll.

The sun is already meandering through noon as Monty stops to rest halfway up the mountain. He looks down the way he’s come and sees his house no bigger than his outstretched thumb. His mother’s terraces glitter with sunlight all the way down the mountain’s slope, their still waters disturbed only by the first green shoots of the season.

“You got the best view on the planet,” Monty murmurs, and turns around to face his father’s gravestone. “Hey dad. Long time no see.”

He traces the letters etched into the stone and tries not to care that they look more weather-worn than they were last time he visited. Not all decay is bad, after all. There’s moss growing on the gravestone’s base, and Monty’s sure his father would have liked that. The gravestone’s flat top has a dozen small pebbles piled haphazardly on it. One still has a clump of dirt and a small shoot of grass clinging to its underside, so Jasper came by this morning too.

“I’ve had a pretty rough few weeks,” Monty says. “Miller and I had a fight. We were, you know, talking about at what point you’re supposed to admit defeat, and we disagreed. It wasn’t like a _fight-fight_ , uh, we’re still. We’re still okay. And I guess it’s better to talk about that than not talk. Still sucked.”

He squints up at the bright cloudless sky.

“I think he might have been right, though,” Monty says. “I think… I think I want to see this war end. And maybe people will be able to come back to Arkadia someday and build graves for everyone we lost.”

He stands up.

“Thanks dad,” he says quietly. “I hope you’re doing all right.”

When Monty returns home the house is silent and the remaining egg rolls on the stove have gone cold. He wraps them up and sets them into the icebox before wandering into the basement. There are voices coming from the lab. Monty ducks his head in and looks at the sight of both Hannah and Jasper peering down at a chemical array with massive goggles making their eyes look comically large.

"The levels should support human life in about five years," Hannah murmurs to Jasper. They are both so absorbed in the readings that they don't realize Monty has returned. He leans on the doorway. "But I wonder if..."

"Could we try an iodine isotope to counteract that?" Jasper murmurs back.

“Maybe…” Hannah says, frowning at the work they’re bent over. “But that won’t stop any particulate in the soil. You'll have to tell your angry Senator friend to budget for importing most of your produce for a while.”

Monty smiles and tiptoes back upstairs without disturbing them. That night he makes algae stew for them and Hannah and Jasper spend most of their time trading half-complete chemistry thoughts across the table, but Jasper absently remembers to thank him for cooking. After dinner Jasper drags his mattress across the hall into Monty's bedroom. Monty rolls over in bed and watches Jasper plop down and wrap himself in a blanket.

"You were right," Jasper says after a long, slightly awkward silence. "This was a good idea."

"I feel better too," Monty says. Jasper is quiet for a while, and Monty rolls over, assuming it means he doesn’t want to talk any more than that.

"So we're going back to the rebellion?"

"We don't have to,” Monty says to the wall. He holds his breath.

"We kind of do, though," Jasper says to the ceiling, his voice very matter of fact, and that's that.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Bellamy’s spare communicator vibrates in his pocket in the middle of a meeting with Harper about Prince Roan's most recent suggestions. He frowns as he pulls it out. He bought it on the black market for its over-the-top encryption, and very few people contact him on it. In the last year, he mostly used it to coordinate with smugglers bringing much needed food and medicine to Arkadia…

The pieces click.

“I’m sorry Harper, I have to take this, just tell Prince Roan to deal with it,” Bellamy says all in a rush.

"How am I supposed to do that?" Harper asks with a note of stress in her voice, "He completely ignores anything he doesn't want to hear!"

"You're very smart and capable and I believe in you," Bellamy says quickly. He shuts off the hologram call before she can answer and her image winks out on her disgruntled face. Bellamy spins on his heel and walks to the corner of the room, holding the communicator so tightly in his hand that the metal edges start to cut into his palm.

He takes a deep breath and answers it.

"Bellamy?" a scared, shaky voice says, and his blood runs cold when he recognizes it as Niylah. "I'm sorry," she says. There’s no video associated with the call. Bellamy presses the button on the communicator but nothing appears – either its damaged, or Niylah is only broadcasting sound. "I didn't know who else to call."

"What's happened?" he asks immediately. Next to him Miller steps forward, drawn by the urgency in his voice, but Bellamy holds a hand out low by his side, signaling that he's not the one in danger. His pulse thunders in his ears.

"Octavia came," Niylah says with laboured breathing. His heart skips a beat. "Bellamy, something's wrong. She came with a troop of soldiers and tore my trading post apart with the Force. I've never seen her so strong before."

"Is she with you?" 

"No, she told me I had to run. I left her behind, I'm sorry - "

"She told you to run?" Bellamy asks, forcing his racing thoughts to slow down long enough to get the words out clearly. This is the first scrap of news he’s gotten since Octavia vanished along with Azgeda’s army and he thought he would be prepared to hear anything. He was wrong. "She didn't hurt you?"

"Not exactly," Niylah says with a sob. There’s a quiet thud, like she’s rummaging around. Bellamy forces himself to unclench his jaw. His teeth are aching. "When the trading post came down, I got hit with some debris. I'm not dying yet, but Bellamy, they damaged my ship. I dropped out of hyperspace halfway to Arkadia, and I'm bleeding, and there's no planets nearby, and I don't think I can repair the hyperdrive in time."

"I have a friend who can come get you," Bellamy says instantly. The calm, soothing voice he learned to use as a politician is out of reach now - the mere mention of Octavia again has destroyed the walls he built for himself. His hand shakes on the communicator. "She's a healer, you'll be safe with her. Send me your coordinates."

"I'm sorry," Niylah says again. "I'm sorry I left her behind. She scared me, Bellamy. That's not the girl I love."

He closes his eyes in pain as Niylah quietly sobs on the other end. Knowing is only marginally better than not knowing, he reminds himself. At least Octavia is still breathing. At least there's hope, even if the Jedi don’t think so.

"Just hold on," he tells Niylah, and he prays for the small victories.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Lincoln lets her in without question. Clarke looks around his apartments as the door closes behind her.

Compared to the other suites she’s seen in Republica 500, Lincoln’s apartments are simple and homey, stripped of the absurd trappings of luxury. Compared to rooms in the Jedi Temple, it’s downright eccentric. They’re not barred from having their own possessions, but it’s not common either.

“I had a feeling you would be coming by,” Lincoln says. “You can sit on the couch. It’s not just for show.”

“Do the other Senators clutch their pearls when you tell them that?” Clarke asks wryly. She doesn’t move to sit just yet, wandering over to a bookshelf whose shelves sag with volumes on every topic imaginable. She drags a finger over an encyclopedia of Felucia’s medicinal flora and pokes the bobbing head of a space diner collectible statue.

“I don’t invite them over,” Lincoln responds. Clarke turns her head sharply.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” she asks. “I didn’t exactly ask…”

“It’s fine,” Lincoln says. “The Force suggested you’d come looking for answers.”

“You know what I want to ask, then?”

“I think I do,” Lincoln says. “But if I’m right, we’ll need some comfort. How are you with spice? I have a new tea from Onderon.”

“I’ll try it, if you’re willing to waste it on my unrefined palate,” Clarke jokes. She trails Lincoln into the kitchen and takes a seat at the counter as he pulls out two wide mugs. “The best tea I ever had was on the trip back from Ilum,” she says. “I was the last one to come out of the caves. The first thing I did when I got back on the ship was take off my gloves and wave my hands at Anya, yelling that I got frostbite because her instructions were stupid.”

The memory makes her smile fondly for a moment, before the inevitable grief creeps back in.

“No one ever gives their Padawan good instructions for Ilum,” Lincoln says with a snort. “It’s because no one got good instructions from _their_ Master. They think it’s justice to embrace the cryptic mysteriousness that they hated when it was their turn.”

“I thought they were going to leave me trapped in the caves!” Clarke says with fond outrage. “It was so damn cold. So when I finally got back and the ship took off, Anya found tea in the pantry, and – “ she breaks off, remembering the heat that seeped through her hands, the aroma that made her unwind, the flicker of muted pride in Anya’s eyes as Clarke held out her prize. “It probably wasn’t even good tea,” Clarke says faintly. “I was just so happy to be warm again.”

“I know,” Lincoln says quietly. The water’s boiled. He pours Clarke’s cup first, then his own, then brings out two dried bulbs the colour of blood. “Watch.”

She leans forwards, nearly bonking her head on Lincoln’s as they both look down at the mugs between them. He drops the bulbs at once, and Clarke watches, holding her breath, as the heat of the water makes the wrinkled petals of the bulb unfurl and tremble under the surface, a shadow of a former flower. A resurrection. Red-orange swirls diffuse into the water.

She tentatively cups her hands around the mug, and sighs as the warmth leaks through.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. Lincoln raises his mug and blows on it, sending a faint cloud of steam between them.

“Are you going to ask now?” he prompts. Clarke’s hands twitch around her mug.

“Why did you leave the Order?” she asks. The corners of Lincoln’s mouth curve upward as he brings the mug to his lips. The first sip of the tea makes him cough, but he clears his throat with a wince and takes another long sip.

“The short answer is that the Jedi had too much compassion and not enough ambition. The Senate had too much ambition and not enough compassion,” he says. He takes a deep breath in through his mouth and stares out the window to their side, where the city lights of Coruscant blaze never-endingly and airspeeders move along their grids like ants.

Clarke raises her mug up to her mouth and takes the first sip. It burns from the instant it passes her lips all the way down her throat, and lingers, like a wildfire whose embers smolder for weeks after the first blaze. She coughs far more vigorously than Lincoln did and barely has enough presence of mind to set the mug back down safely. She glares at him through the tears that have sprung up in her eyes. It’s hard to tell, but he may be grinning.

“I did warn you it was spicy,” he reminds her gently.

“You’re so good – at the fucking zen – thing,” Clarke says between coughs. “People forget that – you’re a goddamn – “

She swallows down the next cough and finally catches her breath. The burn is fading into something nearly… pleasant. She feels warmer than she has in weeks, and the headache that’s lingered since the first few days that she cried constantly starts to ease.

Before she can think better of it, she takes another sip, and it goes down better. Lincoln smiles. Then it fades and he grows serious and still in the Force.

“It wasn’t an easy decision,” he says. “But I saw so much suffering on my missions, and by the time Jedi were called in, things were usually irreparable. I thought I could bring balance to the Force better through politics.”

She sets her mug down with a heavy _clunk_ that echoes through the apartment.

“Politics failed us,” she says. “Bellamy tried to appeal to the Senate, and look what good that did.”

“What can I say, Clarke?” Lincoln answers, his shoulders slumping. “It felt like the right thing to do. It’s never been perfect, since. But I’ve done my best.”

“ _You_ did,” she says in frustration. “I’m not blaming you, individually. I just… I wish things turned out better. I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. Who might still be alive, if one little thing changed. I should have saved everyone. The Order could have saved everyone.”

“There’s more than one way to save the galaxy,” Lincoln says gently. He takes a sip as she mulls this. “I can’t make your decision for you. But my apartment has a surplus of tea and quiet. You’re welcome to visit as long as you need.”

“Thank you, Lincoln,” Clarke says, massaging her temples. The tea really is helping, warming her to the very tips of her fingers, chasing away the chill that has lingered since she faced Ontari in battle. “I’ll think about it.”

She smiles at him, hesitantly, feeling the muscles of her face slowly remembering how to do this. He smiles back, and –

– the shrill beep of her comm cuts through the air. Clarke pulls it out with a frown. She opens the channel and a tiny hologram of Bellamy projects into her palm. He's already pacing with a wild, frantic energy familiar to Clarke - one that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"What's wrong?" she asks, sharing a nervous look with Lincoln. He moves in behind her to stand in the comm's range so he'll be projected to Bellamy.

"You can't tell the Jedi," he says immediately. "The others, I mean."

"Don't worry," Clarke says flatly. "We're not exactly on good terms right now. Bellamy, tell me what's wrong."

"Niylah called," Bellamy says. "She's Octavia's partner, she says Octavia came to her trading post with Azgedan soldiers and told her to run. She's stranded on route to Arkadia and injured. I'm sending you the coordinates. Can you get to her?"

"Who's injured and stranded?" Clarke blurts out. "Octavia, or Niylah?"

"Niylah," he clarifies.

"Did she say Octavia's with her?" Clarke asks, leaning sideways to share a look with Lincoln.

"No, she escaped alone," Bellamy says.

"Sounds like a trap," Clarke says to Lincoln under her breath, and he nods, his face shuttered. She thinks she's quiet enough for the comm not to pick it up, but Bellamy whirls on her anyway.

"I know Niylah," he insists. "She's a good person, she's peaceful. This is the first hint we've had of Octavia, and Niylah says she _told_ her to run. That has to mean something, Clarke. That has to mean she's not all Dark. My sister is still in there."

"Can you explain why she’s traveling with Azgedan soldiers?" Lincoln asks.

Bellamy's jaw clenches.

"No," he admits in frustration. "But I'm hoping there's a reason. Please, Clarke. You can't get the Jedi involved, they'll never give her a chance. It has to be you."

"I'll go," Clarke says, though if he knows her by now he should know there was never a chance she wouldn't.

Lincoln stretches out his hand, and a vase on the top of the bookshelves across the room flies through the air, pulled to his outstretched hand by the Force. He turns it upside down and a familiar shape falls into his other hand - a lightsaber.

"I'll come too," Lincoln says. "If there's danger - " _if it is a trap_ , he means - "You shouldn't be alone."

"You’re not supposed to have that," Clarke says with raised eyebrows at the lightsaber in his hands.

"And you’re not supposed to leave Coruscant," Lincoln replies smoothly. "But here we are." Clarke inclines her head in acknowledgement. Lincoln turns his attention back to the hologram. "We'll update you soon, Bellamy. May the Force be with you."

The hologram flickers as Bellamy hesitates. And then, cautiously, feeling out the foreign words in his mouth, he repeats, "May the Force be with you."

 

 

 

 

 

**UNKNOWN**

 

The stolen ship drops out of hyperspace in a void far from any stars or inhabited worlds. Clarke leans forward and flips a handful of switches to scan for nearby lifeforms, but Lincoln’s eyes are faster.

“There,” he says, pointing a gloved finger out the windshield. A pentagonal light freighter drifts weakly off to their side, leaving a trail of torn hull plating in its wake from the hole in one of its wings. All its lights are dark, and it broadcasts nothing.

“Definitely a trap,” Clarke mutters.

“Without a doubt,” Lincoln agrees, keeping one hand on the joystick for their ship’s nose laser as Clarke cautiously glides them closer. There’s no reaction from the dead freighter when Clarke lines up their loading docks and connects their ships together.

“The Queen’s previous apprentice knew how to cloak herself in the Force,” Clarke warns as they move from the cockpit to the loading dock. “So just because we can’t feel any danger in the Force now doesn’t mean it’s safe.”

The other ship doesn’t have enough power to automatically open its door. Lincoln runs his hands over it, tries to force his fingertips into the groove where it opens. Clarke allows this for about a heartbeat before powering on her lightsaber and driving it through the immovable door. Lincoln gives her a _look_ , but he silently unhooks his own lightsaber from his belt and plunges it into the other side of the door. Clarke’s unsurprised to see that his blade glows a bright green. She grunts as she drags the blade clockwise, carving a molten circular path that Lincoln completes on his half. He kicks the completed shape in and it falls into the other ship’s darkened cargo hold with an echoing thud.

“They know we’re here now,” Lincoln remarks quietly.

“They would already know,” Clarke argues, and steps through the hole, her lightsaber held out at the ready and casting an eerie blue glow into the darkened ship. There’s a slight breeze behind them as the more pressurized air of their own ship flows into the new space, but the equalization isn’t as significant as it could be. Clarke considers it. “Life support’s weak, but still running,” Clarke says.

Lincoln creeps past her up a set of stairs and into the hallway above while Clarke sweeps a critical eye behind them. He pauses at an intersection and cocks his head to the side.

“This way,” he says quietly. “Someone’s still alive.”

The doors to the cockpit are ajar. Lincoln motions Clarke ahead, and she pushes them apart with the Force.

A body lies stretched out on the floor, only the outline of their back lit by the red lights of the dashboard. Clarke kicks the blaster that lies near the body’s outstretched hand and steps over the arm, nervously sweeping the light of her lightsaber into every darkened corner of the cockpit.

“I’ve got it,” Lincoln says lowly. “You check the body.”

Clarke reluctantly powers down her lightsaber, though she keeps it in one hand as she kneels next to the body and uses the Force to flip it over. By the green glow of Lincoln’s lightsaber she sees sharp cheekbones and pale tentacles matted with blood at the temples. The Nautolan woman’s chest is rising and falling, albeit very weakly. She stirs as Clarke lays a hand on her stomach, where the sluggish movement of the Force there tells her the woman likely has two broken ribs and internal bleeding.

“Who – “ the woman croaks hoarsely.

“Bellamy sent me,” Clarke says quickly. “You’re Niylah, right? Niylah, are you alone on this ship?”

“Yes,” she says, her eyelids flickering as she struggles to stay awake. “Just me.”

“I’ll still feel better once we’re off this ship,” Clarke mutters to Lincoln, and she hesitates only a moment before hooking her lightsaber back in its place on her belt and using both hands to lift Niylah’s limp body. Niylah groans in pain as the movement jars her side, but there’s no helping that now, Clarke can heal her once they’re on their way back to Coruscant.

Niylah is taller than Clarke is, and maneuvering her through the freighter’s narrow hallways without knocking her head against a metal wall would be difficult even if she weren’t right on Lincoln’s heels, both of them still on the lookout for a trap.

Clarke’s honestly a little unnerved when they return to their ship and the door slides shut behind them without incident. She lies Niylah out on one of the bunks while Lincoln goes to the cockpit.

In their ship’s better lighting, she can see that Niylah’s head injury is only a shallow scrape. The bruising to her torso is much more serious, and harder to apply bacta to, so Clarke rests her palms against the inflamed area and closes her eyes, digging deep into the knowledge she learned as a child in the Halls of Healing under Master Jackson’s careful tutelage.

Slowly, she coaxes the broken ribs to seal together again and shepherds the blood back into the arteries it spilled out of. The inflammation recedes, bit by bit, and Niylah’s ragged breathing eases. By the time the groan of metal around Clarke signals that Lincoln’s brought the ship out of hyperspace, Niylah’s eyes are blinking open. Like all Nautolans, her eyes are dark and pupil-less. She looks at Clarke with a wary and bottomless gaze speckled with tiny pinpricks of white, like a night sky.

“A Jedi?” Niylah asks as she immediately tries to sit up. Clarke presses her back down with a gentle but firm use of the Force.

“Don't move, you’re still very injured,” she says soothingly. “My name is Clarke. Bellamy sent us to come get you. We’re almost to Coruscant, so we don’t have much time. I know about Octavia – I know she’s been hiding her Force-sensitivity all her life, I know she made a deal with the Sith. Tell me what she was like. How did you get away?”

Niylah presses her lips together into a thin, determined line.

“I don’t know anything,” she says, her eyes cold and caged. “Thank you for saving my life, but there’s been a misunderstanding. I was attacked by pirates – “

“You don’t have to lie, I’m on your side,” Clarke hisses. “Look, the entire Order is ready to hunt her down. Bellamy says she’s your partner – if you love her, tell me what to expect. I’ll try to save her. I’m the only Jedi you’ve got who won’t kill her on sight.”

“I don’t believe you,” Niylah says curtly.

“We don’t have time for this!” Clarke says as the ship tilts to the side. She can hear Lincoln’s faint voice in the cockpit, making arrangements to land with Coruscant’s ground control. She jogs to the door, punches the door to open it, and sticks her head through. “Lincoln, whatever you do, do not dock at the Jedi Temple.”

He blinks at her.

“She needs healing,” he argues. “The Jedi are the best at it.”

“Taking her to the Temple means signing Octavia’s death warrant,” Clarke says. “Please. Can you hide her?”

He sighs.

“I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” Clarke says, and she makes sure the door is securely closed behind her when she leaves. Niylah is sitting up when she returns to the bunk, but she seems too dizzy to stand yet.

“Last chance,” Clarke says, taking a deep breath. Niylah glares at her.

“Are you threatening me?” she asks.

“Begging,” Clarke says. “Please, just tell me what you know. I promise I’m trying to help.”

“Not interested in help from a Jedi.”

Clarke releases the breath she was holding in and bows her head. She doesn’t want to resort to the sort of methods that make Niylah so wary of her in the first place, but Clarke made a promise to Bellamy that she would try to save Octavia, if it’s possible. He didn’t specify how, or where to draw the line. In the basement of Arkadia's palace, with Wells' life on the line, he said nothing when she forced Shumway's cooperation. There wasn't time to find a better solution, even though they both know how much he hates this aspect of the Force. She wonders if he'd forgive her for using it now, if it's an acceptable price to pay for the chance to save his sister. 

“We’re out of time,” Clarke says quietly. She can feel gravity weighing heavily on them, can hear the metal groaning around them as Lincoln slowly parks the ship. She meets Niylah’s narrowed, suspicious eyes. “You _will_ tell me what you saw,” she says, her voice imbued with the power of suggestion.

Niylah’s face goes pleasantly dazed from more than blood loss.

“I will tell you what I saw,” she says in a distant voice. “The walls shook and tore themselves apart. Octavia came first, leading a troop of soldiers with their faces painted white. She told me to run with a code phrase we agreed on years ago. Her friend Monty programmed five battle droids to guard my shop. Octavia activated them, and they attacked the soldiers, giving me time to escape. She watched me go.”

“Did she have a lightsaber?” Clarke asks softly.

“Yes,” Niylah says dreamily. Clarke’s hands are shaking at her side.

“What colour was it?” she asks, knowing what the answer will be and praying she’ll be wrong anyway.

“It was red.”

Clarke swallows hard and lets go of the Force. Niylah’s shoulders slump forward, and she blinks, as if waking from a dream. Realization comes to her slowly, and then all at once in a wave of anger that threatens to bowl Clarke over. Her face is horrified as she looks up at Clarke again.

“You tricked me,” she says, low and disgusted.

“I did what I had to do,” Clarke responds, her lip trembling as she tries to hold back the guilt, and when the ship’s loading ramp _thumps_ down onto solid concrete, she flees before she can face Lincoln’s judgement.

 

 

 

 

 

 **CORUSCANT**  

 

Raven is elbows-deep in a busted hyperdrive when the rabbit droid waddles into Nygel's shop and announces that it has a message for a Raven Reyes with an unnecessary amount of pomp and circumstance. 

"Why are you looking for her?" Raven hears Nygel ask suspiciously. She swears quietly to herself and pulls harder on the component that's been inadvertently welded to the frame of the engine room by a minor backfire in the auxiliary fuel line. She gives it another few tugs, even bracing her foot against the wall for better leverage as the rabbit droid chirps at her boss. When it still doesn't give, Raven throws her hands up in the air and resolves to come back to it later. She gives her toolbox a small kick on her way out of the engine room and looks for a rag to wipe her hands on. 

"I'm here," Raven calls out to the rabbit droid as she emerges from the ship's underbelly into the garage. "What do you want?"

The rabbit droid sways heavily as it turns to face her, its infamous waddle made more pronounced by a slight mismatch in its legs. Raven eyes the shoddy repair job on its left leg with distaste. Whoever is responsible clearly pilfered a joint from an older model and it's going to cause more damage to the socket over time than its worth. 

"I have a message for Raven Reyes from Republic Judiciary Detention Center Zulu dash Bravo dash three," the rabbit droid says cheerfully. Nygel eyes Raven suspiciously. 

"What have you been doing, Reyes? Who’s sending you jail mail?" her boss asks with a sneer.

"I have no idea who would be messaging me," Raven says with an exaggerated eye roll. She jerks her chin at the rabbit droid. "What's up?"

"You have been listed as the emergency contact for a detained individual arrested on charges of common nuisance," the rabbit droid says. "You are thereby invited to Detention Center Zulu dash Bravo dash three to post bail and - "

" _Who?"_ Raven asks, incredulously. 

"The arrested individual is a Zygerrian female known as Maya Vie - "

Raven is limping out the door before the droid's finished speaking, Nygel's protests echoing in her wake.

 

 

 

 

 

 **CORUSCANT**  

 

Clarke strides into the Jedi Temple with thunder written on her face. She can't pinpoint the moment that Master Gaia joins her - with the sheer volume of Jedi nearby the Force is pulled taut, like a fabric tugged in every direction. One moment, she's sweeping down the Halls alone, her robes fluttering behind her, and the next, Gaia has fallen into step at her side. Her face is just as stormy. 

"You left Coruscant," she says stonily. Not a question, but an accusation.

"Yes." Clarke says. She nearly made it to her room before Gaia showed up, and solitude still feels in reach, only a hall away. She tries to walk faster, but Gaia keeps pace without appearing to put any more effort in.

"What were you doing?"

"None of your business," Clarke snaps, and she feels a brief surge of irritation in the Force before Gaia dissipates it like a proper Jedi. Clarke reaches the door of her room and tries to wrench it open. Her cheeks flush as she remembers she hasn't unlocked it. She feels the weight of Gaia's eyes on her as she sweeps her hand over the doorknob and the tumblers click into place, nudged by the Force. Clarke grabs the doorknob and tries to open it again. 

The locks click back into place.

Clarke unlocks the door a second time and again, the locks click before she can wrench open the damned door.

She turns and glares at Master Gaia, who looks perfectly impassive now.

“Your presence is requested by the High Council,” Gaia says. Clarke does not move for a moment, her hand clenched around the doorknob. She wonders how fast she would have to move to open it before Gaia locks it. Which of them would win, if it came to a struggle in the Force.

Clarke looks down. Her hands and the front of her robes are still stained with Niylah’s blood. It’s dried to a flaking, dark red.

“Can I wash this blood off first?”

“No,” Gaia says. “We’re waiting.”

Clarke lets go of the doorknob and follows Gaia down the hall, stewing the whole while. The Force clings to her like a very young child watches their parents pile boxes and bags in front of a door and knows that some great and terrible change is coming. Clarke can’t read it, can’t make sense of its shifting and uncertainty. As they approach the massive arched doors to the Jedi Council chamber, her stomach turns with either dread or hope. She’s not sure which, but she wishes she had some more of Lincoln’s tea; the spicy red one that warmed her belly for hours afterwards and burned away some of the fog that’s lingered over her since –

Well, since Clarke’s faith in the Order died along with Wells and Anya.

The doors close with a _thud_ behind her that rings with finality. The Force draws close to her and Clarke wraps herself in it, hoping for comfort.

“Padawan Griffin,” Grandmaster Luna says coolly. “You had strict instructions not to leave Coruscant without our permission.”

“Explain yourself,” Master Indra says. To her side, Master Jackson gives Clarke a sympathetic look. Clarke can’t meet his eyes. She can sense Lexa in the Force as well, sitting by the door in the seat that belonged to Anya.

Clarke raises her chin defiantly and chooses to stare straight at Luna. She swallows hard and opens her mouth.

“No.”

Indra draws a sharp breath of disapproval. Luna’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

“No, Padawan Griffin?” she asks. “You won’t tell us where you’ve been?”

“No,” Clarke repeats.

“Clarke,” Jackson says with a note of distress. “Whose blood is that?”

“I didn’t injure anyone,” Clarke says carefully. She didn’t mean to give the Council any information at all, no breadcrumbs that they could trace back to Niylah and aid their search for Octavia. But it was Jackson’s careful hands that taught her the art of healing, his patience and approval that warmed her first years in the Order. Clarke will never forget that kindness. No matter what happens, she won’t forget the little things.

“We haven’t had a Padawan this stubborn since Becca Praimheda was a little girl,” Indra hisses.

“I went to go help someone,” Clarke says. Her fists are shaking at her sides. “Someone was out there, alone and hurt, and they asked for help, and I could give it, so I did. That’s what the Force wanted me to do, and that’s what Master Anya taught me to do,” Clarke says, and at the mention of the teacher they both had, she turns her head and stares, for just a few seconds, directly at Lexa. Anya’s former Padawan stares back with conflicted eyes. But it’s too little, too late, so Clarke turns her attention back to Luna and the rest of the Council. “Becca Praimheda reformed the Order,” she says. “She saw it fighting, tearing itself apart, and she brought it back together. The Jedi we’ve become now are not the Jedi she’d want us to be,” Clarke says, shaking her head. The Force holds its breath around her. “We’re supposed to fight for peace no matter what. We weren’t meant to sit around waiting for permission from a Senate that cares more about money than saving lives. We’re supposed to be the _good guys_ ,” Clarke says, her voice cracking with emotion on the last sentence.

“And I suppose you think you’re this generation’s Praimheda?” Gaia asks angrily. Clarke knows that of all the Jedi Masters, she’s always been the one the most protective and reverent of their histories. To her, invoking Becca Praimheda’s name must feel like a trespass.

“No,” Clarke says honestly. The burst of courage that carried her through her little speech seems to fade away. That complicated feeling in her, the one she can’t identify as dread or as hope, prowls around her heart again. “No,” Clarke repeats. “I’m not the new Praimheda. I can’t fix the Order, because I don’t believe in it anymore."

"Don't say that," Lexa says sharply, leaning forward in her seat, her hands digging into the armrests like she's seconds away from hurling herself out of the seat. "Don't say things you don't mean."

"I do mean it," Clarke retorts. She gives Lexa one last quick, defiant glare, and turns back to face Luna. "I stopped believing in the Jedi when I watched my best friend and my Master die. I asked for help and you did _nothing_. If this is what the Jedi are now, I don’t want to be part of it.” She swallows hard, and wonders if Anya would forgive her for what she’s about to say, if she were still alive, still sitting on this Council.

She takes her lightsaber off her belt and ignites it to a chorus of shouting from the Council. Luna leaps to her feet and into the opening stance of Vaapad faster than Clarke's eyes can track her. Her seafoam-green lightsaber is held close to her body, the tip of it pointed towards Clarke like a spear to be thrown. It does not waver. At her side, Indra and Gaia also drop into defensive crouches. Jackson shakes his head desperately at Clarke, his eyes pleading with her not to make a decision she'll regret. But Clarke is already sure.

"This isn't a fight you can win, Padawan," Indra warns. 

"I'm not going to fight you," Clarke says. Honestly, she didn't expect igniting a lightsaber in the Council room to incite such a reaction, but maybe she should have. She looks Luna in the eye and grabs the Padawan braid dangling over her shoulder with the other hand. The bright blue beam of her blade illuminates the shocked and dismayed faces of the Council as she cuts through the braid with a single sure motion. The smell of burnt hair reaches Clarke’s nose just as the braid falls to the ground at her feet. She deactivates her lightsaber and raises her chin defiantly. “I’m leaving the Order.”

Half a dozen voices start to clamour instantly.

"You can't leave," Indra urges her. "You know what happens to Padawans who leave the Order. They turn to the Dark Side - "

"Master Anya said I was ready to take the Trials," Clarke insists.

"She's not here to decide that now,“ Luna says lowly. Clarke shoves down the wave of pain that the reminder brings.

"And whose fault is that?" Clarke argues, baring her teeth. "Let the Force judge me." Her legs feel weak under the weight of so many outraged gazes, like they’re seconds away from giving out underneath her, but the Force feels more sure, more purposeful around her than it has in weeks. She knows what she has to do. “Let me take my Trials.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably obvious by now I love basing the science in my fic on the real world - I actually have a geologist friend whose job involves safe disposal sites for radioactive waste! So I asked him what happens when an area of land is heavily irradiated and if there's anything we could do to speed up the recovery process or if you just gotta wait it out and basically he said "not really" and went on a very interesting and informative rant about horribly inaccurate portrayals of radiation in media. I nodded along, said thank you, and then went home and wrote the _exact_ sort of bullshit pseudoscience he'd be _utterly disappointed_ in me for. But I needed it for plot. And also to reference the destruction of Earth in season 5.
> 
> [Rabbit droid](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/LEP_servant_droid/Legends) \- often used to run messages or errands.
> 
> Luna's a [Nautolan](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Nautolan/Legends) too, like Niylah. For reasons. Also, I've decided that she uses mostly the [Vaapad](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Form_VII/Legends) form, created by Mace Windu because he was a badass who wanted to walk the line between Light and Dark. Here's a description from Wookiepedia: "Vaapad was explained as being a state of mind rather than just a fighting style, allowing the wielder to channel his own inner darkness into the duel, and accept the fury of the opponent." Seems fitting for someone who ran away from their conclave bc they knew they'd win.
> 
> When Padawans graduate, their braid (or an equivalent, if the Padawan is a race that doesn't possess braidable hair - Ahsoka Tano has a string of beads for example) is symbolically cut. Cutting your _own_ braid is like, the Jedi equivalent of spraypainting dicks on the side of your house and yelling "I'm an adult now mom, you can't tell me what to do!"


	15. trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** I think there are none, aside from some continued mourning of canonical character deaths.

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Raven is out of breath by the time she reaches the right detention center. She casts a doubtful eye over the sign that’s hanging lopsided above the door, one of the chains holding it up having snapped long ago. She takes a few seconds to compose herself and to massage the cramp that’s built up in her hip. Then she pushes open the door and stomps in.

“I’m here for someone you arrested today,” she snaps at the Rodian behind the counter. He barely acknowledges her. The Bothan next to him keeps snoring.

At the back of the building, a small figure in flowing robes jumps to her feet and runs to the bars that separate them.

“Raven!” Maya cries out, her furry hands clasping the bars. “You came!”

Raven sighs and slams a small pile of credits on the counter. She raises her brow at the Rodian.

“A tip for you,” she says with a tight smile. “To process bail faster.”

The Rodian grunts and picks up a ring of rusty datachips. He meanders, eventually, to the back of the detention center, where several unlucky individuals are sulking in the corners of their cells. The pace is slow enough that even Raven, with her prosthetic leg, rolls her eyes behind his back. Maya wrings her wrists as the Rodian takes his time unlocking her cell. The moment she’s out, she’s swept Raven into a hug, a surprisingly tight one considering her small stature and the fact that they’ve really only met once or twice.

“Thank you so much!” Maya says, all the words tumbling out of her mouth at once in relief. “I hope this isn’t a bother, but I didn’t know how else to find you, and the Lower levels were so overwhelming, so I committed a minor traffic violation in front of an officer – actually she ignored me the first time, I had to do it another two times, and – “

“Why were you looking for me in the first place?” Raven asks. Maya abruptly becomes very quiet. She shies closer to Raven’s side and stands on the toes of her feline feet to speak into her ear.

“Kane left the planet, and I can’t find Lincoln anywhere, and I can’t contact Bellamy directly because my datapad is bugged – “

“With what?”

“Standard Zygerrian governmental surveillance,” Maya says. “Look, this is really urgent – “

“I don’t know if we should be having this conversation in a detention center,” Raven murmurs, even though the officers behind the counter are hardly paying attention to them now that they’ve been paid.

“Okay,” Maya says, nodding rapidly. “Yes, that makes sense.” She turns and marches to the front counter, her tail lashing behind her with fervor. “My bag, please,” Maya says to the officers. The Bothan is awake now. He keeps cleaning his nails. The Rodian is scrolling aimlessly through advertisements on a personal datapad. “Excuse me,” Maya says after a moment, her voice slightly louder. “I had a bag with me when I came in, I’d like it back.”

The Bothan turns his massive shaggy head towards the Rodian. Maya’s claws tap out a nervous rhythm against the metal counter.

“Do you remember a bag?”

“Nope. Do you?” the Rodian asks.

“Nope,” the Bothan says, and promptly returns his attention to his nails.

“That’s ridiculous,” Maya starts to protest. “Check the cameras!”

Raven tugs at Maya’s elbow and bends down to speak quietly to her ear.

“Did you have anything valuable in it?” she asks.

“My clothes.”

“Fine. Anything you can’t live without,” Raven corrects.

“No,” Maya says miserably.

“That’s good, because you’re not getting it back,” Raven says, and tugs Maya to the door by the elbow. The smaller Zygerrian comes without much fight, trailing behind her in bewilderment. They both blink at the sudden brightness that greets them outside the detention center’s doors. “This is what you get for thinking the police force on Lower Coruscant are the good guys.”

“They’re supposed to uphold the law!” Maya cries out. She twists around in Raven’s grip as though looking back for her lost bag.

“They’re a gang with a salary,” Raven deadpans. “Come on. You can tell me why you’re looking for Bellamy in my apartment.”

Raven feels a little sorry for Maya as they wind through the cramped and dirty corridors of Lower Coruscant. Maya jumps a foot in the air whenever someone starts a brawl in their view. She gags at the gases that pour out of broken pipes and open sewer grates. She tugs at Raven’s overalls when they pass through a small market with vendors who spread their wares over patchy blankets that they can gather into a bundle and run off with at the first sign of trouble.

“That woman was selling powdered Chagrian horn,” Maya says in horror. “That’s – that’s _very_ illegal. And to advertise it as a medicine, Raven – how is this allowed?”

“Her blaster is bigger than mine,” Raven mutters. “Welcome to Lower Coruscant. Not what you see from the balcony of 500 Republica, is it?”

“No,” Maya says miserably. Raven gently leads her into her apartment and pours her a warm drink. Maya gingerly sits on the corner of her couch that isn’t covered in the droid parts that Raven’s been meaning to pack up and sips at her mug.

“So what’s the deal?” Raven asks. “What was worth getting yourself arrested for?”

“You’ve heard that the majority of Arkadia is still missing, right?” Maya asks.

“Yeah,” Raven says, sitting next to her. “An entire planet of people disappearing is a pretty big deal.”

“Well, I think I know where they are,” Maya says miserably. “I overheard Senator Cage this morning. It looks like my people are opening up the slave trade again, and Raven… the numbers he was saying… there’s only one place they could have gotten that many people so quickly.”

“Oh, jeez,” Raven says. She can’t keep sitting – she gets up and paces around her apartment even as her hip twinges with pain at the demanding pace of activity she’s put herself through the past hour.

“So that’s why I need to tell Bellamy,” Maya says miserably. “But I can’t get a hold of him, Lincoln or Kane. I didn’t know who else in the Senate to trust. You’re my only hope.”

Raven exhales roughly, feeling like she’s had all the air punched out of her lungs.

“What’s your plan, Maya? Are you just transmitting this message and then going back to Cage? Or leaving?”

“Leaving,” Maya says quickly. “I – I’m no spy. I want to join the Rebellion. I had a bag packed and everything, but – “

“I’ll take you to Arkadia myself,” Raven says. Maya’s head jerks towards her.

“You can do that?”

“Watch me.”

Half an hour later they’re standing in front of Raven’s best kept secret. It’s her pride and joy, the culmination of years of painstaking work, salvaging parts, scrounging her savings.

It’s always been her dream to fly free from Coruscant, not as a guest or a hired pilot on someone else’s ship. No. _Spacewalker_ is all hers – except for the parts that are Zeke’s. Something in her ribcage pangs, remembering his help, the wistfulness in his eyes visible even over a grainy hologram when they talked about where they’d go first. After this - whatever  _this_ is, whatever Bellamy's holding his breath for and Clarke will inevitably hurtle them into - after this, Raven has some questions for him. For now, she strokes her hand over the sleek red stripe painted along her ship’s flank and thinks about the simple joy of flight.

“Is this your ship?” Maya asks, trailing behind her.

“Yes,” Raven says reverently. “Isn’t she beautiful? Twin ion engines, strike foils, Z-9 deflector shields, heck, I even built a port for a proton torpedo.”

“Are we going to need that much firepower?” Maya asks anxiously, peering up at the ship’s nose.

“Well, probably not,” Raven says, some of her enthusiasm fading. “Honestly the torpedo wasn’t my most practical idea. But I couldn’t resist.”

Maya still looks a little overwhelmed, standing in the garage with one of Raven’s oversized sweaters hanging off her shoulders.

“…I like it,” Maya says quickly, when she sees Raven watching her.

“You don’t know much about ships, do you?” Raven asks with a crooked smile. Maya shakes her head, so Raven just sighs and helps her up into the back of the ship. It’s a tight squeeze. Raven’s left room for two bunks, a bathroom, and a folding kitchenette unit, but in the future she envisioned she wouldn’t spend a lot of time sleeping on the ship itself, but stretched out with a sleeping bag on its wing, looking up at the stars of whatever new planet she’d travelled to. Maya buckles into the co-pilot seat and folds her hands in her lap, looking hopeful. “If you did know about ships,” Raven informs as her as she runs through one last pre-flight check. “I promise, you’d be amazed. Your jaw would be on the floor.”

“Maybe your flying will be more impressive,” Maya says, and it’s not until Raven gives a sharp look over her shoulder and sees her sly smile that she realizes Maya is teasing her.

“Oh, just you wait,” Raven says with a grin. The throttle fits into the curve of her palm like an old friend. She narrows her eyes, ignites the twin engines, and throws them forward through the hangar’s opening. Coruscant’s sky is bright blue today, the smog keeping a low cover, and Raven whoops as she does a quick loop through the atmosphere. There’s chatter on her radio, of course, Coruscant traffic control demanding that she identify herself, that she returns to the ground, that she follows proper exit trajectories. Raven ignores them in favour of asking ALI-E2 to plot them a hyperspace vector. Her little red astromech beeps cheerfully and takes over the navicomputer.

They leave Coruscant behind them in the jet-trail. Her comm rings with a call. Raven answers it absently.

“Reyes?” Nygel’s voice demands. “Reyes? Where the fuck are you?”

“Joyriding,” Raven replies easily, unable to keep a laugh from bubbling out of her. She presses her shoulder to the windshield to see the planet beneath her. The sky around them is darkening, the stars finally visible through a layer of smog. She can see the horizon curving in the distance, the shadow of night laid over the half of the planet currently turned away from its sun. Clarke is right. Coruscant is more beautiful from a distance. She glances over at Maya. "Ready to be a revolutionary?"

"Ready," Maya says determinedly. 

“You think you can get up and leave in the middle of a shift with no consequences?” her boss demands.

“Nah,” Raven says gleefully. She rolls her shoulders, feeling a sense of weightlessness and freedom that has nothing to do with the low gravity. “I quit!”

ALI-E2 gives her a chorus of approving beeps as the stars before them blur into long pale streaks, and just like that Raven is chasing stars. Free at last.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

"Pascal and Trina." Harper says, her face turned up to a sulfuric sky. The colour of it, the lack of sun, makes them all look sickly. Bellamy traces the shadows under her eyes, instead of writing the names down. "They ran the coffee shop across from the market. Pascal opened poetry night every weekend. He was  _awful_ at rhyming but no one had the heart to tell him."

Miller scratches at his beard and considers the distant stormclouds beyond the palace walls. The three of them are taking a rare moment of quiet rest out in the gardens, where Harper plans, by sheer force of will and the sort of love that no one can say no to, to build a memorial for those they've lost and those they can't find.

"Do you remember their last names?" Miller asks before Bellamy can think of it. 

"Nah," Harper says, smiling sadly at him. "But I'm sure they'll be in the city's records. Right Bellamy?" she asks. Bellamy takes a moment too long to focus on her, lost as he is on the precipice of his own thoughts. His mind wanders more than it used to. During the invasion it was so easy to pick a direction and march towards it, doubly so if Clarke either strongly agreed or strongly disagreed with him. Now the threats against his people feel so much more vague and his own power to defend them so far out of reach. Monty says his planet will take years to heal and Bellamy doesn't even know where to start. 

"Records," Bellamy murmurs, looking down at the list in his lap. "Right. Yes. It's fine. I'll just write Pascal and Trina for now."

He focuses on printing their names in neat block letters. Writing is simple. Just lines, so small and numerous they become meaningless. Echoes of people who used to breathe and laugh and  _live_ on Arkadia. Bellamy could find every single name in the records and be done with it, but he and Miller and Harper are out in the gardens instead, taking a quiet rest from the endless work of the living to name as many people as they can. It feels kinder to attach some memory to them before their names are carved up on the palace wall, even if by now Bellamy has filled pages with the people who came to mind easily and they've moved on to townspeople they only knew in passing before the invasion shattered their ordinary lives. 

"Glen Dickson," Miller says after a moment. "He lived up to his last name, but I guess he should still go up on the wall."

"That's the spirit," Bellamy murmurs, noting him down. Harper is back to looking up at the sky again, her hands fiddling with the stem of a limp wildflower. She said she was going to make a wreath for the makeshift memorial the remnants of Bellamy's rebels have put together, but she looks lost in thought now, the flowers only half-braided in her lap.

"Is it bad that I'm kind of glad my dad died before he had to see everything go wrong?" Harper asks softly. 

Bellamy thinks instantly of his mother's hands sewing away in the dark, of the way her vision started going towards the end because she never opened the curtains for light. She couldn't get the thread through the eye of the needle anymore and she never thanked Bellamy for doing it for her, but sometimes she would stop in the middle of her work and stare at him and Octavia, as if trying to memorize their faces while she still could, and then she'd nod to herself, a curt and satisfied motion, and turn her attention back to her seams. He understands Harper's morbid gratitude viscerally, but doesn't think she'd understand his. Harper is glad her father is dead because she is merciful, after all, and Bellamy is glad Aurora is dead because if she were still alive she would have torn him apart for letting Octavia fall to the Dark Side. Those are different kinds of gratitude, but he doesn't want to think of that, so he thinks instead of Wells, who died in time to see Bellamy fail him, only a short walk from where they are now sitting in the grass and reminiscing. 

That's not helpful at all. 

Bellamy slowly puts his notepad down and tries not to empty his stomach into the wilting rosebush next to them. Harper and Miller are still talking, but he hears the words as though his head is underwater. Breathes about as easily, too. 

The rumble of a starship engine overhead shocks him out of the fog. Suddenly everything is crisp, almost painfully so - the glint of tears in Harper's eyes, Miller's shout of alarm as he leaps to his feet. Bellamy reaches for his blaster before realizing he left it in the palace today, because they're supposed to be at  _peace,_ it's supposed to be  _over_ , and then Miller's shaking his shoulders. 

"Hey," he says, his face looming large in Bellamy's field of view. "Hey man, it's good. We're good. That's Raven's ship, see? It's that obnoxious shade of red."

Bellamy rubs at his face and forces himself to breathe. His mother's meditation techniques, drilled into him and Octavia both, are still coming in handy.

" _I_ think it's nice," Harper says, but she's still frowning as she watches it coast over their heads and double around to land on the palace's airfield. "But she's not scheduled to make a delivery run today, is she? Or is my memory..."

"Good question," Miller says. He glances back at Bellamy, seems satisfied by whatever he sees in his eyes. "Harper and I are going to check it out, see what she wants. Yeah Harper?"

"Yeah," she says. "My legs were about to fall asleep, anyway. Bellamy?"

"Go," he says. "I'll catch up."

He waits until they're halfway down the garden's cobblestone path before lying back in the grass and exhaling heavily. He's barely closed his eyes for a second before his comm rings in his pocket, shrill and insistent. Bellamy props himself up on an elbow and answers it without checking who it's coming from. 

"What?" he snaps, and falls short when he sees that it's a hologram of Clarke. She appears in his palm, blue and glitch-y and scowling, and his heart squeezes in his chest. The simple sight of her is better than every meditation technique in the galaxy. He sits up, focused solely on her.

"I didn't find Octavia," Clarke says. "But Niylah is safe. Lincoln's getting her settled with better medical care now, completely unconnected to me. The Jedi won't be able to trace Octavia through her."

Bellamy exhales like all the air's been punched out of him. 

"Thank you," he whispers. 

"I don't have a lot of time - " Clarke says, and just like that the relief he'd only got a taste of begins to wind itself into fear. 

"What's wrong?" Bellamy demands.

Clarke is frowning again and Bellamy wishes she were here so he could get her to relax that everpresent furrow between her brows. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for something. It's Octavia, Bellamy knows. It's always her. 

"I told the Council I'm leaving the Order," Clarke says in a rush, and Bellamy is left reeling. 

Something yearning and terrible rises up in his chest. He tries to slay it immediately. His life has taught him, time and time again, that he doesn't get to want anything. He doesn't get to keep anything. Or anyone. 

"Clarke..." he starts, and then his head is dizzy not with his grief or the scale of damage wrought on his planet, but with all the things he wants to say to her immediately. _Please say you're not doing this for me. Please say you_ are _doing this for me. What does this mean, where will you go - do you want -  I want - do we want the same -_

"The Council is worried I've fallen to the dark side," Clarke says, rolling her eyes. "So I convinced them to let me take my Jedi Trials. And we'll let the Force decide what to do with me."

"Are you coming back?" Bellamy asks before he can bite back the hope.  _She should be here_ , he thinks. They started this together. They should be together for the aftermath, too. Clarke bites her lip and gives him a soft look. Even though the grainy hologram in his palm, Bellamy feels his chest grow tight and warm. And he knows, as clearly as if the Force told him itself, that she loves him. Whatever happens, he'll always have that knowledge.

"Bellamy," she says, soft and tender, and he can barely hear her over his roaring heart. "I have to survive my Trials first. Not everyone does."

"You will," he says. _You have to_ , he doesn't say.

"I don't even know what they are," Clarke says, a note of apprehension entering her voice. "No one knows, no one talks about them. I have no idea what I'm walking into. Bellamy - I called to say goodbye. Just in case - I wanted to see your face again."

"You're Clarke Griffin," Bellamy says, forcing a smile. "This is nothing."

"But just in case - " Clarke says, holding his gaze. "Bellamy, I need to tell you..."

He shakes his head as her courage fails her. 

"If I don't see you again..."

"You will," Bellamy says fiercely. She still looks like she wants to argue so he shakes his head vehemently.

"Bellamy - " she says, just as something happens on her end, and her head swivels to look behind her. "I'm coming," she says to someone outside the hologram's range. "Just a minute - "

"It's time," the voice says.

"I just need another minute - "

" _It's time, Padawan."_

"Tell Raven to be safe, and keep an eye on Jasper, and tell Miller - " Clarke says quickly.

"Padawan Griffin, do _not_ keep the Council waiting."

"It'll be okay," Bellamy promises.

Clarke looks back at him helplessly. She raises a hand, as if to wave. He tries to memorize her face: the determination in the furrow of her eyebrows, the mole above her lip, the short patch of hair on the side of her head that is sticking out, the ends singed.

"May we meet again, Bellamy," she says, and then the transmission is over. She's gone.

"May the Force be with you," he mumbles to the empty space in his palm. His fingers curl helplessly over the silent comm. He's spent so much of his life resenting the stupid goddamn Force as this unstoppable, vague, cruel idea that kept his little sister trapped and afraid and did _nothing_ to stop terrible things from happening to his people. It surprises him that he actually wishes it on Clarke, not as a curse but as a comfort. 

He closes his eyes and sighs. His breath rattles in his ribcage. He hates this. He hates being apart from the people he loves, not knowing if they're safe, unable to help.

"Bellamy!" Miller shouts in the distance. 

He looks up, aggravated, only to feel that all melt away to confusion as he sees Miller and Harper both running back through their gardens. Harper has her hand firmly clasped around...  _is that Maya?_ And Raven bringing up the rear? Bellamy blinks as Harper tows the hapless little Zygerrian in her wake. 

"Hi Bellamy!" Maya says as soon as she's close enough. Her eyes bore into his, bright and filled with fire. “I know where your people are being kept,” Maya says urgently. “At least, I’m very sure. There’s only one reason why Senator Cage would be talking about reopening Mount Weather’s prisoner processing facilities.”

The news hits Bellamy like a blow to the stomach. Fury follows only seconds later.

“I'm going to tear him apart,” he says flatly. It’s an effort to keep his voice calm when he wants to burn, wants to be saving his people _right now._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

The only things Clarke is allowed to take into the Trials are herself and her lightsaber. Correction - she's also allowed to wear a light tunic, fastened around her waist with a simple cord. But nothing else. Not her warm brown robes, not even a pair of boots. 

The sun has gone down, and a chill has set in. Clarke tries to hide a shiver as she stands in the hallway outside the chamber where she will take her Trials and the cold of the stone floor seeps into the soles of her bare feet.

Every once in a while a small head peeks around the corner at the end of the hallway. The gossip has gotten out already, of course, and more than a few Jedi children are curious about what's going on. Masters Gaia and Jackson are in charge of shooing them off to bed. Around her, Indra and Lexa are lighting candles to illuminate the corridor for the evening. Clarke and Luna stand, the only motionless beings in the flurry of activity, in front of the huge arching doors that Clarke will go through alone. Clarke peeks at Luna sideways and wonders how many Padawans their Grandmaster has seen walk back out those doors. Luna doesn't look very old, but she's been Grandmaster as long as Clarke can remember, and though her childhood memories are coloured by bias, Clarke thinks she hasn't aged at all since Clarke was one of the kids peeking around the corner for a glimpse at the Trial preparations. Luna's eyes are closed and her head is bowed. Both her expression and the slow, deep expanse and retreat of her ribcage speak to an unmovable serenity.

Clarke half wishes she could live like that, half-removed from the world around her. But she doesn't know how to stop caring. She doesn't even want to try anymore. And that's why they're all gathered here tonight.

"We're ready when you are," Indra says. Her presence brushes Clarke's in the Force, and to her surprise Indra wishes her well despite the expression on her face. Clarke feels a quiet sort of hope from her, alongside the resignation and disapproval that most of the Council is radiating. She doesn't look at Lexa. Clarke already knows what she thinks of this and she doesn't need an extra helping of doubt.

"May the Force be with you, Padawan Griffin," Luna says, and then all the Jedi Council members raise their arms as one. They push open the doors to the testing chamber with a powerful ripple in the Force that nearly makes Clarke stumble.

She doesn't allow herself to look back as she walks forward into the chamber. Strangely enough, one of the myths that Bellamy told her comes to mind, the story of a musician descending into the underworld to retrieve his dead lover. If Clarke looks back, she is afraid she will lose everything. So she keeps walking, trusting in the Force, trusting in the love of her friends even scattered throughout the universe as they are.

"I'm not alone," she whispers to herself, even as every step into the chamber kicks up clouds of dust. She doesn't look around until she hears the heavy arched doors slam shut behind her, the wood creaking with the weight of centuries. The chamber is huge and utterly empty aside from the trail of her footsteps in the dust. Dim city light filters in through small windows set into the high domed ceiling. The air smells stale. The Force is quiet.

"Hello?" Clarke calls out, and her voice echoes through the chamber over and over, like a chorus of intangible beings greeting her in return. She notices deep gouges cut into the floor and the walls around her. Lightsaber cuts, if the depth of the grooves and the black carbon scorching around them is any indication. Whatever the past Padawans were attacking in this room is absent now. Clarke paces around the perimeter of the room, her lightsaber held ready in one hand. She searches for the edge of a trapdoor, listens for a hollow sound. Nothing. The Force is still quiet around her. She can't sense anything dangerous or ominous. It just feels... expectant. 

Minutes pass, slipping past each other like grains of sand. Clarke remains on edge, patrolling the edges of the chamber and her weak human eyes straining to examine each shadow in the darkness.

A small, morbid corner of her brain wonders if the Padawans that came before her started slicing up the walls out of sheer boredom. She laughs bitterly at the thought. Maybe the Trials are a test of patience. Maybe she's only meant to last a certain length of time alone in this room before demanding to be left out. The Masters on the other side of the door did seem like they were settling in for a long vigil, with the candles and the sitting cushions. It would be fitting for the Jedi Trials to measure her willingness to sit and do nothing, wouldn't it? It's exactly their sort of humour.

Clarke lets out a long, rattling sigh and finally sits down cross-legged in the center of the chamber. She balances her lightsaber in her lap, easily accessible if something _does_ show up to attack her, and she closes her eyes. The cold of the stone floor sinks quickly into her body. The swirling dust makes her want to sneeze. The conditions are not at all conducive to meditation, but... Clarke has faced worse. Anya made her meditate while upside down every morning for nearly a year before she was satisfied with Clarke's concentration. It would be easier to start with a plant, with an open and eager gateway to the living Force, but this will be enough. 

Clarke exhales and imagines emptying her body. She inhales dust and ignores the taste of it, the scrape of it against her throat. There is nothing but her consciousness and the Force. Eventually the boundaries between that blurs as well. 

A breeze blows at her hair. The air is still filled with dust but it is not so stale anymore. She opens her eyes.

The plains of Mandalore stretch out to an endless gray horizon. The earth around her is scorched and scoured with past wars. The oceans burnt up a century ago and never returned. The only trees that remain are bare stumps that slouch in crumbling earth, their leaves and branches faded to dust, their trunks fossilized into dark gray stone. Clarke stands up. The wind tugs at her hair. A long, hulking shadow that blocks out the sun's weak light stretches out over the sand.

She turns around warily and finds a towering stone griffin, its body stained with stubborn growths of lichen. A rumble like the sound of a rockslide shakes the ground around her as the griffin sits on its haunches and lowers its neck to get a closer look at her. It has to tilt its head, bird-like, examining her with one eye at a time.

The eyes alone are massive, nearly Clarke's height and a bright white-blue that almost hurts to look at. They glow slightly and Clarke barely has to reach for the Force to know that each is made from a kyber crystal, like the one that powers her lightsaber, only a hundred times larger. Clarke is only a single step away from being crushed under its massive paws. Its claws look like sharpened ivory and each is longer than her arm. Still, she is not very afraid. It's a griffin, after all, and so is she.

WHY ARE YOU HERE? the griffin asks. The stone beak does not move, but Clarke feels the weight of the words in her mind, each syllable reverberating like the shockwave after an explosion. Her teeth rattle in her skull. Her ears ring. It thrums in her very bones.

"I - " Clarke says, squinting to look the griffin in the eye. "I'm here for my Trials."

The griffin blinks and it sounds like the scrape of gravel.

DO YOU KNOW THE CODE, CHILD? 

"Yes," Clarke says, frowning. Of course she knows it. She's had it drilled into her head since she was old enough to speak.

RECITE IT FOR ME, the griffin demands.

"I don't want to be a Jedi," Clarke says instead. "I don't want to be judged as one. I think the only reason the Council is letting me take the Trials is because they're expecting me to fail."

The griffin does not move or blink for a long time. Long enough that Clarke begins to worry that whatever voice that spoke to her is gone and the statue is only stone now. 

I WILL BE THE JUDGE OF THAT. RECITE THE CODE.

Clarke narrows her eyes.

"There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force," she says woodenly. 

The griffin growls deep in its stone throat and Clarke thinks of avalanches, of seismic shifts, of stars colliding. She doesn't have time to ignite her lightsaber before the griffin opens its beak with a deafening scrape of stone and snatches her up. Clarke struggles to free herself but the arm holding her lightsaber is pinned to her side. The world blurs as the griffin shakes her in its jaws and then flings her to the side. Clarke is airborne for what seems like an unnaturally long time before she slams into a cold metal surface. She groans at the impact and presses her cheek against the cool, smooth metal. She allows herself only a few seconds of rest to catch her breath back and stop her head from spinning before scrambling to her feet and summoning her lightsaber back to her ready hand.

The reflection of her bright blue blade in a glass window makes her startle. Mandalore has vanished. Clarke is now standing in front of the airlock of a starship. On the other side of the glass doors separating her from the enclosure that opens to the void of space, everyone she has ever loved is standing in neat rows. 

Anya is at the center of the first line, her eyes shadowed by the sharp lighting overhead, but she is not alone. Right over her shoulder, Clarke can see Bellamy, his hair wild and windswept, his face bearing still some of the scrapes from their missions on Arkadia. Monty and Jasper stand near him, side by side here as they are everywhere else in life, and Lexa at the very back, and Raven leaning on her good leg on that side, and her mother and father in the very middle of the endless parade of the dead and the living. Here are all the people Clarke cares and has cared for. In this lighting, and standing stone-still as they are, unblinking as they look at her, not even their lungs expanding with breaths, they look more like lifelike statues than real people. 

Clarke powers off her lightsaber and steps closer to the glass separating them. She does not dare to breathe. In the first row on the far side, Wells smiles at her. She puts one foot in front of the other until she's standing in front of him and presses her palm to the cold glass window.

Wells' mouth moves. The griffin's voice rattles Clarke's bones.

CHOOSE, it says through his mouth, and Clarke knows it means the lever by the door, just like she knows that pulling that lever will open the far doors and expose everyone in the airlock to the unforgiving cruelty of open space.

"I don't want to," Clarke protests.

CHOOSE.

Clarke reaches for the lever and rests her fingertips on it. She knows this is a test, and she knows what the right answer is, what a good Jedi would choose. But that's not her answer, and the agreement she made with the Council was to let the Force judge her. The Force; the light and the dark and every shade of gray in between. Not the Jedi. There are more than two options. Wells' eyes are dark and knowing as they bore into her.

CHOOSE.

"No," Clarke says, and she raises her hands, the palms facing outward, and _pulls_ the doors apart with the Force.

One by one everyone in the airlock fades away, like smoke dissipating on the wind, but Clarke feels only relief as her arms drop to her sides. Wells’ smile fades into darkness.

Her father is the last one remaining. He looks at her and Clarke is unprepared for the overwhelming grief that a dead man's face causes her. Jake Griffin has been gone for long enough that Clarke was starting to forget the details of his appearance. The way he always slouched a bit, even when Abby snapped at them both to sit up straight for important political dinners. The hair that sticks up at the back of his head. The way he'd tilt his head when he looked down at her, like his young daughter was a puzzle that still surprised him. Clarke has holos and portraits of him, but they're not the same. He looks solid and real in front of her, like she could tumble forward and he'd hug her like he always used to when she returned home to Mandalore.

"Dad?" Clarke asks, her voice trembling a little. He turns around and starts walking into a blank black void. Clarke barely hesitates before stumbling after him. She sudden finds that she can't keep up with him without running. Each step of his slow and measured stride threatens to carry him out of her view.

"Dad, wait," Clarke calls out, hurrying forward and reaching up to grab his hand. He towers over her. Clarke realizes that the top of her head only comes up to his hip. Her hand is dwarfed by his.

Out of the darkness a desk materializes. A familiar desk, one still sitting in his study, untouched by Abby since his death. Jake walks around it and sits down in his chair. He bends over the blueprints scattered across his desk and sighs heavily.

"What's wrong?" Clarke asks. Her voice is higher than she’s used to. Child-like. She clambers up into his lap, settling herself across his leg to see the papers on the desk better. Jake rubs his eyes with one hand and a quiet sense of dread and understanding settles in Clarke's stomach as she recognizes the blueprints. "These are the starship plans you died for," she says sadly. Jake nods.

Clarke sits quietly for a moment, her eyes tracing the designs from the engineering company her father worked for. He found a flaw in the life support systems of a new line of starships. They'd already begun mass production. The first batch were set to ship out to eager customers. Jake Griffin was assassinated for blowing the whistle on the dangerous project and costing the corporation millions of credits.

There are deep lines in her father's forehead as he stares down at the plans. Clarke reaches out and tentatively lays a small hand on his arm.

"I miss you," she says. They could have had years longer, if he hadn't been killed in retaliation. Clarke starts to cry quietly and realizes that part of her never really recovered from Jake's death. She never got to mourn. The day it happened Abby cut her visit home short and sent her back to Coruscant, where the Jedi were ill equipped to handle one of their own grieving the death of a parent, since most of them didn’t even know the _names_ of their parents, let alone what that love had felt like. Clarke raged at her mother for a long time afterwards for not letting her stay for the funeral or the subsequent investigation into Mandalore's corruption, even though Abby was only trying to keep her daughter out of danger. She sniffles loudly, and Jake rubs her shoulder. "I miss you a lot, but I think you made the right decision. You saved people's lives by telling them the truth about those ships."

Jake smiles sadly at her. Then he picks her up by the armpits and sets her back down on the floor. Where the soles of her feet touch it, the featureless black surface begins to ripple into old stone, brown and dusty and worn down by the footsteps of generations before her. Jake’s office vanishes, replaced by the antechamber of an ancient Jedi temple.

Clarke starts to protest but Jake points beyond her. She follows the direction of his finger and sees a large, carved circle with interlocking rings made of an old, polished bronze set into the floor. _A doorway?_ she wonders.

CHOOSE, the griffin says, unseen and yet all around her. The world rumbles underneath her feet, knocking her off balance.

“Choose _what?_ ” Clarke snarls, her voice back to its normal, low pitch again. She stands up again, dusting her hands, and realizes that she’s now nearly eye-level with her father. She’s never been old enough, tall enough, to see him from this angle before, and that knowledge makes her reel back from him. He simply smiles and holds out both of his hands. In his left hand is her lightsaber hilt, familiar and worn by the years of her apprenticeship. In his left hand is a heavy triangular prism made from the same bronze as the doorway, its sides etched with unreadable designs. Clarke glances back at the rings and sees a matching slot at the center of the nested circles. The carvings that begin on the key’s surface appear to extend outwards into the rings, like the rays of a rising sun.

CHOOSE, the griffin reminds her.

The rumbling grows more violent. Clarke falls onto one knee as the stones shake underneath her. There is a sudden wave of heat that makes her hair stick to the back of her neck and grow damp there. A crackling sound, distant at first, and growing into a crescendo, makes her frown as she tries to place it. The Force is agitated. _Danger,_ it says, but nothing clearer than that.

Clarke doesn’t understand until dust begins to pour out of the cracks in the ceiling, and she realizes that crackling sound approaching her sounds like fire, but the sheer volume of it… It must be a _massive_ fire.

Clarke reaches out with both hands and grabs both the triangular key and her lightsaber from her father’s outstretched hands, clipping the latter to the cord around her waist.

She scrambles to the center of the interlocking rings and places the key into the triangular slot at the center of the doorway. The temple around her groans in distress. A block falls out of the ceiling and smashes into the ground only a meter away from Clarke, sending up a cloud of dust that makes her cough into her sleeve.

Her eyes water as she looks up at Jake.

“The rings need to line up, right?” she asks, tracing a finger along the carved etchings. It looks like her guess was right – the key is the center of a sun, and its rays extend outwards. Jake doesn’t answer, but Clarke wasn’t really expecting him to.

She shifts her weight off of the innermost ring and digs her fingers into the carved grooves, grimacing as she tries to turn it. It doesn’t budge. The Force feels like a migraine between her eyes, a dull throbbing getting louder and louder. The short clump of hair where she sliced off her Padawan braid blows into her face and she brushes it away impatiently, all attention focused on the puzzle underneath her. A second block falls from the ceiling and shakes the foundations under her, followed by a smaller third one. Clarke swears loudly and scrambles to her feet. She scrutinizes the nested rings with an artist’s eyes, seeing the places where they should line up, where the sun should form. It's a  _key._ She just needs to turn the lock.

The crackling of approaching fire is unmistakable now, the heat of it making sweat bead on her forehead and chest. Clarke rolls up the sleeves of her robes as more stone blocks fall and crumble around her, and then she reaches out with her hands and asks the Force to push the rings into place.

They begin to spin around her, light glowing between the cracks and through the etchings. The doorway opens and _keeps opening;_ the floor falls away into a pitch black abyss and Clarke falls with it. She hears the scrape of stone teeth biting together above her that fades as she plummets away into the unknown.

She can't even scream; the speed of the fall steals any air she tries to breathe in. Slowly the impenetrable darkness is broken by the neon glow of holographic advertisements and the headlights of airspeeders. A chorus of honks follows Clarke as she falls through a break in the traffic. Her stomach threatens to revolt, both from the vertigo and the memory of this fall, only a few months ago. As soon as she notes the parallels, she sees him, and it’s both a horror and a relief. In this vision, like the memory, Bellamy’s eyes are closed, his arms thrown to the sides as he falls. His coat billows violently in the rushing air.

“Bellamy!” Clarke calls. Her hand stretches out, grasping for him, and they collide together, tumbling head over heels into thin air. She wraps one arm around his waist, keeping him close, and lightly slaps his face with the other hand. “Bellamy, wake up.”

They slam into a soft landing that knocks all the air out of Clarke’s lungs. She blinks and relaxes the desperate grip she has on Bellamy, disoriented by shafts of golden light that feel blinding after the darkness of their fall. They’ve landed in… _a bedroom?_ It’s not one Clarke recognizes. The mattress under her is soft and smells clean. The sudden bright light is only warm sunlight streaming in through huge windows on the far wall, the curtains pulled back to reveal what looks like a thriving garden with colourful banners that flutter gently in a breeze.

A hand curls around her wrist, and Clarke startles before she realizes Bellamy is awake and smiling at her. The coat he was wearing earlier is gone; he’s wearing a thin linen shirt instead, pale in colour and liberally unbuttoned at the top, revealing a tempting expanse of olive, freckled skin.

It’s only been a few weeks since Clarke last saw him, but the colour and depth of his eyes still makes her stomach somersault. The everpresent worry that marks his forehead seems to have melted away. She’s never seen him this relaxed before, and she marvels at it, at how comfortable and at home he looks in this bed, as he brings her hand to his mouth.

His thumb presses into the center of her palm as he nudges her fingers apart with his nose. First he kisses each fingertip, slowly, the heat of his mouth lingering with every exhale. His eyes never leave hers, playful and smoldering as he watches her reactions from underneath his eyelashes. Clarke hisses as he finishes with her fingertips and moves his lips to her palm and leans into her hand. She can feel her cheeks heat and prickle with a blush.

“Bellamy – “ she starts, and forgets what she was going to say when he tugs gently on her wrist and unbalances her just enough that she falls onto his chest. Clarke shifts her weight, propping her forearm next to his head, and her chest aches as she looks down at him. She doesn’t know if she deserves this – the bed that smells like them, the golden sunlight greeting them through the windows, Bellamy looking at her like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to the universe. She wants it so badly it scares her; the depth of this longing.

Bellamy’s hand snakes around her waist and presses on her lower back, his fingers splayed along her spine. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes are still transfixed on her, and she knows he’s telling her to stay.

"I can't,” Clarke says gently, carefully disentangling herself. “I can’t rest while there's pain and war. And neither can you. This isn't real."

The fake Bellamy gives her a smile that is both secretive and sad. The back of her neck prickles. The Force whispers just out of reach. The hum of a lightsaber igniting does not belong in such a peaceful scene. Clarke rolls out of the way just as a red beam comes down and cleaves the mattress where she was just laying. 

The darksider wears tattered black robes. This seems too familiar.

Clarke gropes at the blankets behind her for her lightsaber and ignites it in front of her just in time to block a second downward swing that would have cut her in half. The darksider’s face is half hidden by greasy strands of dark hair, and it morphs as Clarke stares at her. Sometimes it’s Ontari’s face, and sometimes it’s Octavia’s. Once, it turns into her own face, and Clarke's stomach lurches to see her own features so twisted by hatred.

Clarke dodges and strikes in equal measure. Bellamy and the bedroom that felt so safe are gone; there is only this battle now. Her pulse roars in her ears, her heart pumping adrenaline through every artery. The red lightsaber comes scant centimeters away from her neck and Clarke feels the searing heat of it on her skin.

When it’s Ontari’s face that is snarling at her from behind the red lightsaber, Clarke grabs her collar and stabs her lightsaber through her abdomen. Ontari makes a shocked, choking sound as it sinks into her. The red lightsaber slips out of her limp fingers and powers off when it hits the ground.

Clarke closes her eyes and leans against her opponent in exhaustion. For a moment there is only the sound of their breathing, harsh and ragged, and the hum of the lightsaber Clarke has buried in her opponent's torso. And then, rumbling in the distance, is the dull roar of a waterfall. Clarke opens her eyes and sees that the lightsaber she's still holding is bright red instead of her familiar blue. She looks up with a startled gasp and sees that the darksider's face has morphed into Anya's. Clarke turns off the red lightsaber and throws it away to the side, not looking to see where it falls, but the damage is done.

"I'm sorry," she says to Anya. Tears gather, unbidden, at the corners of her eyes. She blinks them away and new ones come. "I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough to save you."

But Anya's face holds no blame or resentment. Her smile, when it comes, is subtle. But Clarke had years to learn the way her Master's mouth twitches upwards at the corners. The way the bright markings along her eyes relax ever so slightly.

She reaches a hand out and cups Clarke’s face gently. The comforting touch only makes the tears come faster. Anya brushes them away, and then begins to slowly peel back the fingers that Clarke has fisted in the collar of her robes, one finger at a time. The ground just behind Anya’s heels crumbles away, piece by tiny piece, eating away at the foundation. Clarke’s grip on her robes is the only thing keeping her steady on the lip of the drainage pipe they stand on. She remembers this. Mount Weather, on Zygerria. The last mission before Wells' transmission.

Clarke looks down at the drop. Water flows over their ankles and over the edge, cascading with a low roar into a river at the end of the fall.

“I'm not ready," Clarke says, shaking her head vehemently, the tears returning to her eyes with a vengeance. Anya gestures more animatedly at the drop.

LET GO OF YOUR BLAME.

She cannot be only imagining the notes of Anya's voice in the griffin's earth-shaking voice. Clarke stares at Anya's familiar eyes, searching for a trick. She saw Wells and her dad and Bellamy too, and they weren't really here. It's not the same. They're only projections - the Force playing with shadows on the wall.

"Is it you?" Clarke whispers. "Or is this the Force telling me what I want to hear?"

Anya smiles mysteriously, her eyes ever so slightly crinkled around the edges, and tears of disbelief blur Clarke's vision. Anya finally peels all of Clarke’s fingers off her robes and squeezes her hand tightly. She’s still smiling the smile that tells Clarke she’s forgiven. Anya nods her head at the drop and gently pushes Clarke back from the edge of the waterfall.

DOES IT MATTER? IT IS TIME TO LET ME GO, LITTLE GRIFFIN.

Clarke’s chest hurts with the weight of the time they didn’t get. The time they should have had.

"Is Wells there too?" she asks, feeling small and childish and unable to hold back. "On the other side? And my dad, and Atom and Monroe and everyone?"

YOU ALWAYS DID ASK THE MOST DIFFICULT QUESTIONS. 

A laugh bubbles out of Clarke's chest.

"Okay," she says. "Okay. I'll - I'll try. I'm ready."

She reaches for her Master’s hand and squeezes it tightly. And then they jump over the edge.

For a split second they hang in the air, suspended over the drop as water rises off the waterfall in a cool mist that refracts light in every direction. Then gravity calls to them. The river at the end of the drop rushes up to meet them. Clarke has time to draw in half of a breath, and then they’re underwater, all light and sound muffled. The current pulls Anya’s hand out of hers. Their fingers trail together, and then she’s gone.

Clarke washes up on the other side of the river alone, and she knows not to wait for Anya. Water streams out of her hair and her robes, splashing over the rocky beach as she clambers to higher ground. She walks and walks and walks until the landscape gives way to the empty stone chamber she first started meditating in. Her wet shoes slap against the floor as she walks to the doors and pushes them open with the Force.

The Council is waiting for her outside. The candles they set out at the start of her Trials have burnt down to their bases. It looks like dawn has come outside the Jedi Temple. Clarke comes to a stop at the center of the semi-circle and holds her head up proudly, trying not to shiver. A puddle slowly forms underneath her dripping robes as the Council stares at her.

"Is that it?" she asks them. 

"You passed," Indra says grudgingly. 

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Clarke says, relieved despite herself. “I’m still not falling to the Dark side, and I’m still leaving the Order.”

Grandmaster Luna walks forward, her steps slow and deliberate. When she stops just before Clarke, she speaks quietly enough that the other members of the Council would have to strain to hear.

“You’re going after your friend’s sister, aren’t you?” Luna asks. When Clarke doesn’t respond, she sighs. “Not many people know this, but I strayed from the Light once, too.”

Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise. _Luna?_ The most serene and withdrawn Jedi she knows?

“I came back,” Luna says softly, just for the two of them. “But I was not the same person.”

“I understand,” Clarke says. Luna’s deep brown eyes stare into her for another moment, and then she slowly nods and removes her lightsaber from her belt.

“Kneel,” she says, and Clarke does, her knees soaking into the puddle her dripping robes have left on the floor. Luna’s sea-green lightsaber comes perilously close to both of Clarke’s shoulders as she is knighted. “Then by the will of the Force, Clarke Griffin, you may rise."

There is little other ceremony to it. Clarke stands up again as Luna turns on her heel and leaves without another word or look at her. She wonders if there would have been more if – but no, there’s no point in speculating. She’s made her choice. She’s picked a different path.

Indra approaches her next and extends a hand outwards, the palm up.

“Your lightsaber,” she says flatly. Clarke’s hand immediately goes to her belt, but she doesn’t unhook her lightsaber just yet. Anya’s stern voice rings through her head, the memory as clear as it was years ago.

_This weapon is your life._

Clarke swallows hard, and slowly places her lightsaber into Indra’s outstretched palm.

“Good luck, Clarke Griffin,” Indra says stiffly, and she looks up sharply in surprise. In the Force Indra is hard to read. She’s a little disappointed, Clarke thinks, a little disapproving, but also… hopeful?

“Thanks,” Clarke says softly. She watches Indra walk away with her lightsaber. Her empty fingers curl into fists at her sides. Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes next, but neither of them can look at the other for long, and neither makes a move to come closer. Clarke wanders off, her head spinning with the possibilities, her heart growing lighter with every step.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

The Arkadian palace is swarming with activity.

"Someone lit a fire under Bellamy while we were gone," Jasper murmurs to Monty as they weave around ground crews fueling up all the starfighters that survived the rebellion's retreat. There's another squadron further down on the tarmac - Mandalorian Fangs, by the looks of them, must be one of the guilt gifts from Clarke's rich mom. Next to the shiny new Fangs, the rebellion's patchwork fleet looks rusty and inelegant, but Jasper catches the eye of one of the pilots he recognizes from the rebel camp and feels a chill creep down his spine at the sight of the fire in the eyes.

"Something has definitely happened," Monty agrees, following his line of sight. "They wouldn't be fueling up every fighter at once for radiation recon missions."

"I really hope we didn't come back to Arkadia just to get invaded again," Jasper murmurs.

Monty spots Miller giving orders at the edge of the airfield and drags Jasper onwards. He lets go only to grab the sides of Miller's face and drag him down for a kiss so, you know, Jasper gets a good view of that. He grimaces and looks up at the grayish-yellow skies overhead until they're done.

"You came back," Miller says, looking at them both. He fixes Jasper with a piercing look. "You didn't have to, but I'm glad you did."

"Don't get mushy," Jasper says awkwardly. "Neither of us know how to handle that."

"Nate, what's going on?" Monty asks urgently. "What's everyone preparing for?"

"You got back just in time. Azgeda sold our people to Zygerria. We're going to get them back," Miller says, his jaw set. "Follow me. Bellamy will be glad to add the Skyripper to our plan of attack."

Miller leads them through the chaos to the reincarnation of the rebellion's war room. Bellamy and Harper stand in front of a wildly mismatched council of allies, some physically present, some - like the Mandalorians, like the Senator from Triku - participating via hologram. A model of Zygerria floats in the middle, with Bellamy gesturing over it as various tiny fleets move in. Jasper freezes in the doorway and runs his gaze over the room. There's the outrageously pregnant woman from Eligius, and a shirtless Azgedan man wearing a crown and Jasper doesn't even know which question to ask first, but -

It all flies out of his head when he hears a tiny sniffle from the corner of the room. Jasper ignores Bellamy's war council - Monty will fill him in on the plan later - and strides over to the Zygerrian girl bravely trying to hold back tears in the shadows.

"Hey," Jasper says softly, ducking his head so he doesn't look quite so tall. "Are you okay?"

"I've committed treason," she says, whiskers quivering, and - okay, Jasper doesn't know how to respond to that. "And I think everyone here hates me anyway," the girl continues, and that's easier to work with, Jasper knows how to relate to that.

"Sit down," he says, gently pulling her to a bench at the edge of the room. "How long have you been crying? You're probably really dehydrated. I could get you some water - unless you, uh - " he pulls the flask off his belt and shakes it, listening for the slosh inside. "Do you want to try some famous Green tea? That's Green with a capital G."

The Zygerrian girl stares at him for a moment and then covers her face, her shoulders shaking.

Jasper squints.

"Are you crying, or laughing at me?"

"Can it be both?" she says weakly as she accepts the flask. Jasper sits down on the bench next to her and exhales heavily. From this position they have an unfortunately excellent view of the war council. "I did the right thing, right?" the Zygerrian girl asks softly as the model of her home planet is swarmed by holographic starfighters.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pascal, Trina, and Glen Dickson are all OG delinquents who died in record time. The _if I don't see you again/you will_ from 4x06 are switched around because idk.
> 
> Also I just want to say that the trials scene was written several weeks ago, and was not inspired by the 6x07 episode, but oh boy you bet I had a field day with it.
> 
> Re: the trials... there is exceedingly little canon information to go on. At least that I could find, maybe one of the Star Wars books covers a Trial. So I took the canon Jedi Code and gave Clarke some semi-memories/semi-dreams to go through that 'test' her commitment to each phrase of the Code. The fact that Clarke asks to be judged by the _Force_ and not the _Jedi_ is an important distinction - because she definitely would have failed if judged by Jedi standards - she didn't make the appropriate Jedi 'choices' for the appropriate Jedi reasons. Half the time she didn't even make a choice she just plowed straight through the Trial construct. I love my stubborn lil Slytherin.  
> A couple of nods to canon:  
> \- the doorway with the triangular key is borrowed from the entrance to the Second Dawn bunker under Polis  
> \- the 'massive fire' that starts bringing down the temple around her while she's trying to unlock it is Praimfaya  
> \- the waterfall she and Anya go over is the dam exit they take out of Mount Weather in The 100 canon, and the escape from the first chapter of this fic
> 
> So we had some votes that virtual bedsharing counts towards the tally, about Force-hallucination-bedsharing? Only two chapters and an epilogue left to go. 16 and 17 are loooonggg - originally one 25k chapter that I cut in half. Can't believe it's almost over. Thanks everyone for reading, and find me on tumblr as kindclaws.


	16. eurydice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** references to bullying, unhealthy upbringings, and the usual things associated with battle - no overt violence in this chapter, though.
> 
> BTW this chapter is over 10k! For reference, most chapters so far have been about 7k, so if you're putting something off, DO THE THING FIRST. This fic isn't going anywhere.

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

Clarke doesn't have a lot of possessions. _Well_ ,she thinks to herself, _as a Jedi_ \- and then the shock of the past night hits her all over again, both a breathless delight and a lump of fear that settles low in her gut. 

She's not a Jedi anymore. 

She sits back on her heels and looks around at the room that was almost home. It feels emptier now, with the years of drawings taken down from the walls, the bed neatly made as Anya would have wanted it. It is not her packing that makes it feel hollow, not a lack of possessions - everything Clarke has put away amounts to a single bag. It's her presence, taken out of the room as cleanly as a surgeon's cut, as though she'd never lived here at all. 

There's only one last remainder of her left. A trunk under the bed, forgotten for years, its top covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust. Clarke holds her breath as she pulls it out into the light. Partially because she feels the weight of history on her shoulders. Partially because the dust that her shaking fingers dislodge into the air will make her sneeze. The particles swirl around her, slow and glowing in the light, as she thumbs the dials to the lock and the clasps click open. She lifts the lid and there, right in front of her, is Jake Griffin's last gift. She picks up the note, torn from a corner of his blueprints, and traces her father's disjointed script with a reverent fingertip. 

 _Sweetheart_ , it says.

 _I hope your Order doesn't think I'm overstepping by giving you this gift. You are a Jedi, and that's a beautiful thing_ \- Clarke winces - _but you are also a Griffin of Mandalore. Abby says I've made this too big for you. I tried to tell her it's supposed to be too big - you'll grow into it, not to worry, stop grumbling that Wells is still taller than you - but she still insists I've overestimated. Call it a gamble on my daughter growing strong and tall. Try on the gauntlets and let me know what you think. We can talk about you getting a jetpack next year, if you're a good girl, but you're already a menace in two dimensions and I shudder to think of the chaos you could sow if you had the freedom to fly in three. I'm kidding, I will totally make you a jetpack next year._

_Be good, kid. Not too well-behaved, of course, but a happy medium. Your mother and I love you. We'll see you on your next visit home._

_Jake_

Clarke startles when a single tear drop falls onto the paper near his signature. She dabs at it quickly, hoping it doesn't warp. This is all she has left - he didn't live long enough to make her a jetpack too. But maybe, finally, she has grown enough for this gift. She shuts the trunk quickly and stands. 

She takes one last look at the empty room, and leaves. There's only one place she can imagine going while her head spins with a heady mixture of fear and excitement and regret and certainty: Raven's apartment.

The morning sun was well on its way to painting Coruscant's sky a pale pink when she descended into Lower Coruscant's twisting and dirty depths, so by the time Clarke reaches Raven's apartment she expects Raven to have just come home from the night shift. But banging on the door gets her no response. The second time Clarke lifts up her fist to knock, a burly Wookie down the hall opens their door and glares at her. 

Clarke glares back until the Wookie retreats into their apartment. Then she closes her eyes and reaches out with the Force, searching past the rusting walls for Raven's familiar presence. Maybe she's gone on another supply trip for Arkadia? The apartment is empty, but when Clarke stretches her senses further, she finds Raven quickly approaching. Raven feels like a warm flame in the Force, and after so many years Clarke finds her easily. Something else draws her attention, something fleeting, the recognition of it on the top of her tongue -

Something falls with a thud and Raven swears loudly, breaking Clarke's concentration. She opens her eyes just as Raven comes around the corner of the apartment compound, limping heavily on her prosthetic. 

"Woah, what's the rush?" Clarke asks, pulling her hood back to reveal her face. She can tell by the way Raven skids to a stop and blinks that she wasn't expecting Clarke to be standing here.

"How long have you been there?" Raven asks.

"Just a few minutes," Clarke says, stepping forward.

"Good," Raven says. "Bellamy said something about you leaving the Jedi?"

"Yeah. I left - for good. You're the first person I wanted to tell but you weren't answering your comms - " Clarke says, and Raven drops the bag slung over her shoulder and steps forward to wrap Clarke in a bruising hug.

"If we had more time," Raven says to the top of Clarke's hair, "I would tell you all about how proud I am of you and ask you what your plans are now, _yada yada_. Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time."

"We don't?" Clarke asks, as she's currently sleep deprived and overwhelmed by the biggest decision of her life.

"Long story short," Raven says as she drops the hug and hurries to unlock her front door. "Maya found out that Azgeda sold all the prisoners they took from Arkadia to Zygerria."

"No," Clarke blurts out, aghast.

"Yes," Raven says. "She's helping Bellamy plan an attack on Zygerria to free them. I came back for you. I was going to kidnap you from the temple if I had to, but this is a lot more convenient. Stop standing there and staring at me and get in, dammit."

The shook of the news made Clarke stop dead in the hallway outside Raven's door. She uproots her feet with some difficulty and follows Raven inside, her brain already buzzing with what she knows about Zygerria, about their defenses, about Bellamy hurtling their already fragile rebellion straight into a war.

"We need to help," Clarke says, wringing her hands in Raven's kitchen.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm three steps ahead of you. Snap out of it, Griffin."

Clarke blinks away her daze. She realizes with a sudden start that almost everything in Raven's apartment is packed up - the walls bare, the droids put back together, Clarke's houseplant wilting on top of a stack of boxes.

"Raven..."

"Shush. You know it was always going to happen someday."

And she starts scrambling around the apartment, tearing up already packed boxes and moving others aside until she finds what she's looking for. She returns to Clarke a moment later with a smaller, battered crate in her hands.

"Hold this," Raven says as she dumps the crate in Clarke's arms. "You're in charge of making sure that gets to my ship."

"What's this?" Clarke, reaching in and picking up metal coils and energy gates and bolts. Something at the back of her mind is waking up in response, long-slumbering, brought back by the familiarity of the pieces Raven's given her.

"You're going to need to build a new lightsaber, right?" Raven asks, a little nervously. Clarke feels a wave of emotion rise through her and lodge in her throat, where she struggles to swallow around it. Raven fills her silence with apologies. "Some of the pieces are really old, but I've cleaned the heck out of them, and I didn't know exactly what you'd need so I tried to get you a variety - "

Clarke drops the crate and flings her arms around Raven's neck. Raven staggers back a step under her unexpected weight, but her arms come up and return the embrace only a moment later. She smells like starship fuel, sharp and acrid. 

"What would the universe do without you?" Clarke asks, muffled.

"Go to shit," Raven says with a quiet laugh as they disentangle their arms. Clarke steps back and takes another look at the box.

"There's no - "

"Kaber crystal, I know - "

"It's _kyber_ ," Clarke says with exasperation.

"It's Force mumbo jumbo," Raven shoots back. "I had no idea where to start looking for one of those things. Was hoping you'd have an extra one lying around..."

"I don't, but I know where to get one," Clarke says. "We'll need warm clothes."

Raven grabs a few more things, tosses two sweaters over her shoulder, and shoos Clarke out the door. Before she can close it and lock up, Clarke balances the crate in one hand and reaches out with the other, summoning the pathetic-looking houseplant to her. Raven rolls her eyes as Clarke stacks it on top of her crate.

"It'll die without us," Clarke says defensively.

"It lived a long and miraculous life under my supervision," Raven shoots back. 

They don't talk much more than that as Raven leads them to the nearest port. Clarke is expecting to have to charter a ship and is already bracing for the cost of a private flight to Ilum with a heavy tip to ensure the pilot doesn't start sharing Jedi secrets left and right - but instead, Raven leads her to a small but sturdy starfighter with red stripes.

"It didn't really sink in until just now," Clarke says, stopping in her tracks. "That you built your own ship. Like, an  _entire_ ship. I don't tell you often enough how absolutely incredible you are."

"Of course," Raven says with a smirk.

Clarke loads the crate full of lightsaber parts into the co-pilot's seat and pauses before climbing in to look around the hangar. A familiar sensation is tingling her, like the one she felt just outside of Raven's apartment. Like a subtle and quiet instrument suddenly joining in the middle of a song, or an old friend brushing past in a crowd without saying hello. Clarke tilts her head and considers it. The Force hangs around her, expectant and curious. She senses no danger from it, so whatever it is, she decides it's not worth the investigation. Honestly, she's so exhausted from her Trials that she's not sure she could pinpoint it if she tried. It might just be her traitorous heart, aching at the thought of leaving Coruscant. Her departure from the Jedi Temple is only now starting to really sink in and feel _real_. She knows it's the right thing to do, but it's still hard to say goodbye.

"Got the coordinates?" Raven asks Clarke as she shakes her head to get rid of the spiraling thoughts and climbs into her seat. 

"Ilum system," Clarke says, and then yawns loudly. "Is it okay if I sleep?" 

"Go ahead. ALI-E2 and I got this," Raven says fondly as she pats the dashboard of her ship and ignites the engines. Clarke would like to think that the affection in Raven's voice is for her, but there's a chance it's for the ship too. She curls up in her chair with a smile and squirms until she's found a good place to rest her head. She's awake for the take-off and the lurch of her stomach as Raven pulls the throttle for a steep climb into Coruscant's atmosphere. The last things she notices before drifting off are the sigh of satisfaction that Raven makes as the starship glides into hyperspace, and that same sensation of a curious gaze fixed upon her.

When Raven nudges Clarke awake, the starship is still streaking through hyperspace. Clarke blinks blearily at the stars that blur past them in long pale streams and checks the time. 

"Are we - wha?" she asks Raven.

"Shh," Raven says, speaking in a low and uniform tone that immediately has Clarke sitting up straighter in her seat. "Don't freak out, but life support reported an anomaly."

"How bad?" Clarke says. Her hand automatically reaches for her belt before she remembers with a jolt that the lightsaber she's carried for years has been confiscated.

"We're using about 40% more air than we should have by now," Raven tells her quietly. "It might be a glitch, but I figured you could check with weird Jedi powers."

Clarke instantly reaches out with the Force. She and Raven burn like flames. The wilting houseplant Clarke tossed into the bunk is a dull glow. And nestled in the belly of the ship is something in between...

Silently, Clarke slips out of her seat and tiptoes to the back of the ship, using the Force to cushion her steps. Raven swivels around in her chair and watches with narrowed eyes and her blaster cocked. Clarke runs a suspicious gaze along the removable floor tiles underneath the ship's small common room. It's a fairly standard build among starships, both for easy access to the ship's inner workings when something inevitably breaks down, and for a little hidden space that most customs officers will turn a blind eye to - for the right price. Clarke raises her eyebrows at Raven and her friend gives her a brisk shrug as if to say _what about it?_ Clarke shakes her head and crouches down next to the tile that the Force has led her to. Clarke reaches a hand out, focuses on that tile, and wrenches it out of place with the Force.

In the cramped hollow underneath the floor, the sleeping body nestled between two pipes stirs with a small groan.

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ARKADIA**

 

The truth is that Bellamy has never felt at home in the wardrobe befitting a Senator. 

He hated the high, stiff collars of a royal aide's uniform from day one, but putting it on felt like putting on a mask. The mask of someone powerful and competent, who had never had to hide a family member's existence, who had never gone hungry on two-thirds of a wartime ration. He never stopped feeling like an imposter, a wolf in sheep's clothing. 

It scares him how easy it is to slip into armour and sling a blaster into his belt. It means he might have been made for war more than he was meant for peace.

He holds his head up high as he walks out of his cabin and down a long hall towards the command bridge. On the way he passes rebels and volunteers from Mandalore's army alike, all armed to the teeth. The Mandalorians are impossible to read behind the T-shaped visors of their helmets. Each and every one of the Arkadians, however, bears the grim look of someone who has already suffered and has no reason to hold back from the one chance they'll get to save everyone they've lost. Bellamy thinks he might be wearing the same expression. He makes eye contact with as many as he can as they carry extra fuel canisters for the starfighters and crates full of comms and rations.

His friends are already waiting for him on the bridge, ready to descend into the underworld with him. As Bellamy walks up to the command platform, a hush falls over the agitated crowd making their last minute preparations. Miller falls into step on his right as second-in-command immediately. He bumps Bellamy's back with his elbow, letting him know he's close behind, grounding him. Bellamy doesn't want to show how much he needs the comfort. There are so many eyes on him, waiting for orders - even a comm focused on him that will be beaming his hologram to the second shuttle. 

Harper looks on with her jaw clenched and her eyes full of hope from the primary pilot's seat, where she'll be taking point on navigation. Monty has the same position on the other ship, along with Jasper who has apparently been hard at work outfitting their fleet of starfighters with some... creative explosives. Maya is on Bellamy's shuttle, standing off to the side, looking deeply uncomfortable with the wide berth everyone else is giving her. It is her planet they're about to attack, after all, and not everyone knows what to make of the skittish Zygerrian defector who has been offering advice at every tactical meeting. Bellamy makes eye contact with her and motions her to join him and Miller on the command platform. He wants his rebels to follow his example and trust her. 

Maya steps up rather reluctantly, her feline tail lashing nervously between her feet. 

"Are you sure I should be up here?" she hisses to them once she's within range. The only other person who has really opened up to her so far has been Jasper, and she seems at a loss when he isn't nearby, ready to step between her and any dirty looks.

"This mission wouldn't be possible without you," Bellamy reminds her, and she swallows hard and holds her head up as she parks herself on his other side. 

Bellamy nods at her and then sweeps his gaze over everyone else gathered. There isn't a single sound audible over the hum of the engines. His rebels are watching with thinly-disguised hope in their eyes, with the exception of Roan, who is leaning against a wall at the rear of the crowd and has his eyes closed either in peaceful meditation or boredom. Hard to say.

He wishes Wells were here.

"My mother was a seamstress," Bellamy tells them, projecting his voice with a manufactured confidence. "But more importantly, she was a storyteller. I want to tell you a myth she told me when I was younger. A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, there was a musician whose songs were so beautiful they could bring gods and monsters to their knees, weeping. And he loved someone, the way we have all loved someone." He pauses to take a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed. "Before Azgeda and Zygerria, we loved parents and friends and neighbours and children and partners. The musician's loved one was torn from him, like our loved ones were taken from us. But he wasn't ready to give in, so he walked into the underworld, into the realm of death, to get her back. And he played for the gods and the monsters of the underworld, and his music was so beautiful that they all got out of his way and let him find his lost love." Bellamy takes another deep inhalation, finding himself breathless from the story and the weight of the eyes on him and the utter stillness of the bridge. "The gods made a bargain with the musician. They said, we will let you walk out of the underworld, and your love will follow right behind you, but you must not look at her. If you turn around to see if she is okay, she will be lost forever, and so will you." The bridge has the atmosphere of a graveyard. He speaks again: "We don't have gods waiting for us at the other end of this flight. The only people we can bargain with are ourselves. We don't know how many Arkadians were taken prisoner and how many are still alive in Mount Weather. When we go into this battle, we don't know how many of our loved ones we're going to be able to rescue from the underworld, or how many of us will survive the attempt. It probably won't be enough. But if you can, please, don't look back until these shuttles safely return to Arkadia. We'll have time to mourn later. We can't afford it now. We can only afford to fight, to take back what's been stolen."

Miller is the first to throw his fist into the air and let loose a blood-curdling yell, but the rest of the bridge follows almost immediately, erupting into a deafening roar that rivals the response Bellamy got from the Senate.

Bellamy divvies out the remaining last minute orders. Fox, contacting their allies and giving the signal; Harper, coordinating the hyperspace vector with Monty; Miller, updating Admiral Sinclair on their final defenses. The bridge descends back into chaos, and Bellamy and Maya remain to stand in the eye of the hurricane.

"With speeches like that, it's no wonder you started a revolution in the Senate," Maya says softly. 

Bellamy huffs a laugh. 

"Those politicians needed a good shock to the system," he says.

"Does that mean you won't be returning to Coruscant, after the war?" Maya asks. She frowns to herself. "I suppose you'd have your hands full, being the highest surviving member of your government."

"I don't want to be," Bellamy blurts out. 

"What?" Maya asks, her face open with curiosity. One ear twitches.

Bellamy stares out into the landscape of space outside the shuttle's windshield. Distant stars and nebulas break the monotony of black. 

"Before the blockade," Bellamy admits quietly, "Wells talked about stepping down as Prince and changing Arkadia's government to a fully democratic one."

“Oh,” Maya says, her voice laden with understanding. Her ears lie back for a moment, flattered against her skull, before she relaxes them. They stand in silence for a moment, buffeted by the flurry of movement around them. “I think you can do it,” she says at last.

“It’s something to worry about if we survive,” Bellamy says, closing his eyes. He doesn’t want to let himself dream of it too hard.

“You will get your people back,” Maya declares, her whiskers twitching as she turns to face the oncoming stars. Bellamy wishes he could be so certain but instead he’s painfully aware that the decision to attack Zygerria is entirely on him, whether it goes well, or whether he loses more of his already decimated people. "You have to," Maya says, quieter this time. "So I didn't betray my planet for nothing."

 

 

 

 

 

**HYPERSPACE, ENROUTE TO ILUM**

 

" _Madi?_ " Clarke asks, astounded.

The girl underneath the floor sits up at the sound of her voice, her eyes wide and a little panicked.

"Please don't be mad!" she says quickly.

"Clarke, _why_ is there a kid on my ship?" Raven says.

"She was following me! That was you, right?" Clarke says, quickly remembering the subtle presence she felt outside Raven's apartment and again as the ship was about to take off. "Madi, Lower Coruscant can be really dangerous. What were you thinking?"

"Is it true you're leaving the Order and going to the Dark Side?" Madi blurts out.

"I - what?" Clarke asks. "I left the Order, yes. But I am not going to the Dark. Where did you even hear that?"

" _Everyone_ is talking about it," Madi says matter-of-factly.

"Well that part isn't true," Clarke mutters. She sits back on her heels as Madi clambers out of the hole she was hiding in and joins her on the ship's floor. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't want to be a Jedi either," Madi says quickly. "Please don't make me go back to the Temple."

"I think I have to," Clarke says uncertainly. She glances at Raven, but she only shrugs. No help there. “I’m already kind of on thin ice with the Order, I don’t want to be accused of kidnapping you too.”

“But you’re not kidnapping me. You can tell them it’s my fault,” Madi insists. “I hate the other kids. Whenever anything weird happens in the creche, they _always_ blame me, and the Masters _always_ believe them. Please, Clarke, I don’t want to go back.”

“We’re already almost to Ilum. It would be a waste of time to turn back to Coruscant right now,” Clarke relents, and flinches at the overwhelming wave of relief and excitement coming from Madi along the Force. She raises her hand quickly to temper the girl’s expectations. “I’m only agreeing to this because the Order would have taken you to Ilum in a year or two anyway,” Clarke says. “But I won’t take you into a war. As soon as Bellamy is ready to attack Zygerria, you have to go home where it’s safe.”

“Thank you!” Madi says, immediately launching herself forward into Clarke’s lap and wrapping her skinny arms around her neck. Clarke finds herself returning the hug, hesitantly at first. She’s surprised how right Madi feels in her arms, how warm it makes her feel. Madi pulls away a moment later and hurtles across the ship to give Raven a similar hug. She and Clarke share a look over Madi’s head that lasts until the instruments in the cockpit start beeping shrilly.

“Coming out of hyperspace,” Raven announces as she drops back into her seat. “Buckle up.”

“What’s Ilum?” Madi asks, practically bouncing in her seat as she settles in next to Clarke and fumbles with the shoulder straps.

“Just wait,” Clarke says, unable to keep a broad smile off her face. “It’s beautiful.”

Raven’s ship, being well-constructed and newly completed, drops out of hyperspace with barely a shiver to acknowledge the push and pull of gravity on it. Ilum fills the majority of the windshield: a planet of icy canyons and mountains, unbroken by vegetation or civilization.

“Are you sure there’s anything here?” Raven asks as she glances over ALI-E2’s preliminary scans. “There’s no signs of life down there.”

“There’s something,” Madi says doubtfully. “I can feel it. But it doesn’t look that beautiful to me.”

“We’re not close enough yet,” Clarke says as Raven brings the ship into orbit and they coast over the bright white-blue expanse of glacier fields. She gives ALI-E2 a set of coordinates she memorized years ago.

“My planet was warm,” Madi says wistfully. “And green. Our village was surrounded by trees, and we had banners hanging up – “ she breaks off suddenly, her shoulders hunching in on themselves, the shadow of some dark memory passing over her face.

“It’s okay,” Clarke says quietly. “You can talk about it, if you want.”

But Madi only shakes her head and leans closer to the window, her breath misting the glass as she watches the mountains rush up to meet them. Raven finds a rocky gorge near Clarke’s coordinates, just wide enough for the ship to park and have some shelter from the icy winds that buffet the planet’s surface.

“Honestly,” Raven says as they watch snowflakes swirl in chaotic patterns just beyond the windshield, “I really don’t want to go outside in that. It’s going to wreak havoc on my prosthetic. You don’t need me for this part, right? It’s Jedi stuff?”

“You wouldn’t enjoy it, no,” Clarke says, thinking of the steep and slippery hike some of the underground tunnels require. “And it’s always good practice to have someone on standby on the surface of Ilum, in case we get lost.”

“Am I coming?” Madi asks, immediately perking up.

“If you want,” Clarke says, standing up and pulling on some of the warm sweaters Raven brought along for the trip. She gives Madi a conspiratorial smile. “You’ll have an experience that none of the other Jedi kids will.”

Clarke sees her eyes light up with fervor at the thought of something of her own, something special, something the other children at the Temple will have to wait to share in. Madi eagerly reaches for some extra warm layers to put on. Clarke shows her how to overlap them at the hems, slows her down when she shoves her feet in her boots without regard for arranging her socks to keep out the snow.

“We’ll be back soon, I hope,” she tells Raven, who has already happily settled into the engine nook to do some tweaks. She waves them off with a wrench, and Clarke takes a deep breath before punching the release for the door.

A flurry of snow greets them the instant they climb out. Madi makes a strangled yelp as the snow hits their faces. Clarke turns to see that she’s somehow unwound her scarf since she last checked it and exposed a strip of pale skin to the chill. Clarke rolls her eyes and tucks it in. The snowfall isn’t heavy enough to blind them – she can see the hulking outline of the cliff that rises up in front of them – but just in case, Clarke offers Madi her hand. They stumble through knee-high snowdrifts until Raven’s ship is only a darkened blur behind them.

“What are we looking for?” Madi asks, her voice breathless as she labours forward through the snow. “The Force feels weird.”

“We’re almost there,” Clarke promises, squinting up at the sheer glacial cliffside ahead of them.

“There’s nothing here,” Madi insists.

“Reach out with the Force,” Clarke says, extending her free hand forward into the wind. She closes her eyes and feels Madi shuffling in the snow next to her. “Can you feel the cracks in the ice?”

“Maybe,” Madi says doubtfully.

“Push at them,” Clarke says, keeping her eyes closed and her voice low and soothing. “With everything you’ve got. We can break it, together.”

She can sense Madi’s uncertainty and confusion in the Force, which means she can also sense the moment Madi decides to trust her and pour all her strength into the ice blocking their way. Clarke _shoves_ with the Force, Madi alongside her, and opens her eyes just as the sheer cliffside in their way begins to crumble. Huge chunks of snow and ice fall away with a deafening rumble that echoes long after the entrance to a hidden Jedi Temple is revealed.

“Woah,” Madi says, her eyes wide and awed by the sight of the towering, geometric carvings revealed by their small avalanche. “We’re – we’re going in there?”

“We are. Come on,” Clarke calls, tugging her along. “Let’s get out of the wind.”

Inside the temple’s sanctum it’s a little warmer. Not enough for them to get comfortable, by any means, but the shelter from the swirling snowflakes means they can loosen their scarves and hoods. Clarke smiles as Madi cranes her neck to look around at the two huge stone statues that guard the caves. The sunlight glowing through the ice illuminates two hooded figures, each wielding a stone lightsaber that points up at the domed ceiling.

“Okay, I guess it’s pretty cool,” Madi says with a shy grin.

“The really fun part hasn’t started yet,” Clarke says secretively. She points at a small gap in a frozen waterfall at the back of the temple. The passage is just wide enough for them to slip through, one-by-one, into the caves beyond. The tunnel splits into many forks, each vanishing deep underground. Clarke closes her eyes again and pushes her senses outwards, asking the Force for a direction. “What do you feel?” she asks, her voice hardly above a whisper.

Madi is silent for a while, perhaps searching, like Clarke is.

The first and last time Clarke came to Ilum, she was the oldest of her group, and immediately tried to herd the other children down the passage of the tunnels that felt _right_ to her. She didn’t know, back then, that everyone that enters these caves has a different destination. A different destiny. Clarke was a different person then. A Jedi. She’s hoping there’s something here meant for the person she is now.

When Madi finally responds, her voice is a whisper too, like she’s picked up the reverence of the caves and doesn’t want to shatter its peace.

“I think I’m supposed to go there,” Madi says, pointing at the darkest tunnel. She shivers, though with cold or anticipation, Clarke isn’t sure.

“That feels right to me, too,” Clarke says, with some surprise. She wasn’t sure if Madi would feel a calling to the caves yet, but she certainly wasn’t expecting it to be in the same direction as hers.

They descend into that branch of the cave carefully, mindful of the uneven and icy ground under their feet. Clarke’s eyes slowly adjust to the dimness. Madi keeps close to her, even as pinpricks of light start to shine through the ice all around them. Clarke smiles to herself as Madi’s head turns as they walk, as she tries to keep looking at a fixed point even though they’re moving.

“Clarke,” she hisses only heartbeats later. “Clarke, are those...?”

“What do you think they are?” Clarke asks with a grin. Even in the low light afforded by the ice’s gentle glow, Madi’s eyes are wide and sparkling.

“Lightsaber crystals?” Madi asks. “Is that why we’re here? You’re making a new lightsaber?”

“I am,” Clarke says, pleased with how quickly Madi pieced together the clues. The crystals set into the walls of their tunnel wink and pulse with fluctuations in the Force; like heartbeats. Like distant stars. The Force moves strongly here.

They walk until the caves open into a bright cavern. The glacier above their heads is thinner here – sunlight filters through the ice and casts a ripple of blue over the cavern. In this light, Madi’s dark hair appears purple. Clarke watches with half her attention as the young girl clambers onto a nearby stalagmite to get a better view of the crystals that wink and glitter throughout the cave. She climbs like she’s had plenty of practice, and if she falls she has the Force on her side, so Clarke isn’t particularly worried.

Something is pulling her to the far side of the cavern, upwards, where the cavern’s rock wall rises up into staggered terraces. With one more look towards Madi and a reminder to watch her footing, Clarke lets the Force guide her forwards. When the climb becomes too steep, she uses the Force to vault herself higher, pulling her knees up and somersaulting across gaps.

One kyber crystal glows far brighter than the others, nearly blinding to look at even though the light finding its way through the glacier should make it dim by comparison. Clarke is breathless by the time she reaches it, though not from exertion so much as by an overwhelming wave of relief.

There’s another crystal here meant for her after all. The Force wants her to have it, through whatever happens next. Clarke pulls her mitten off her dominant hand and reaches out. As soon as her fingertips touch the brightly pulsing kyber crystal, it breaks off. She cradles it in her palm, even though it burns at the touch. It’s like holding a live ember in her hand.

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers reverently, and quickly tucks it into a safe pocket. She can’t feel its heat through the padding of clothing between her and it, but she’s still painfully aware of it as she leaps back down to the floor of the cave. It draws all her attention. It’s not heavy in weight, nor is it big enough to poke through the pocket. But in the Force it feels like carrying an entire star with her.

Clarke weaves through a maze of stalagmites and narrow chasms until she returns to Madi. To her surprise, the girl is crouched down, her head bowed over something cupped in her hands.

“Madi?” Clarke asks, breaking into a jog to close the remaining distance between them. When Madi is slow to respond, Clarke kneels down and rests her hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Madi shakes her head violently and Clarke hears a quiet, muffled sob. She's prickly in the Force, like a cornered animal trying to make itself look like it won't go down easy. Clarke makes quiet, soothing noises and sits down next to her, trying to appear non-threatening.

"Hey," she says softly. "Talk to me, Madi. What's going on in your head?"

"They're going to take it away from me," she says in a small, teary voice.

"Who's going to take what?"

Madi uncurls her fingers slowly, stiffly.

“It’s mine,” she says, as she shows Clarke the crystal in her palm. “It’s the first thing that’s been mine since the Jedi took me away,” she says.

“Oh, Madi,” Clarke says.

"I have nightmares," Madi says with a hiccup. "There's a man with a hood - Master Gaia says he's a Sith. He came just before my village was destroyed. He tries to teach me things, he says - "

A whisper of fear creeps down Clarke's spine.

"Can I hug you?" Clarke asks as Madi breaks off into a sob. The girl looks up, her eyes wide and shocked, before she bursts into a fresh wave of tears and Clarke feels an overwhelming wave of relief and longing from her in the Force. She sits down and pulls Madi into her side, sharing what warmth they can between them in the cavern’s chill. Madi’s eyes water as she looks up. The redness around them makes the blue-green of her pupils even more vibrant. _Force_ , Clarke thinks to herself. _How long has it been since someone offered her a hug? She's just a kid._

"The Council says I'm vulnerable to the Dark Side," Madi says, her eyes searching Clarke's for answers or opposition. "They say because I didn't grow up in the temple, because I let Sheidheda into my head - "

"You didn't let him," Clarke says fiercely. "You don't want him, do you?"

"No," Madi says, shaking her head rapidly and pressing close to Clarke. "He scares me. But Master Gaia says I'm dangerous, and all the other kids know it." She opens up her hand again, looking down at the little kyber crystal cradled there. "Clarke, they won't let me keep this. What Master Gaia is right and I'm destined to become a Sith? I shouldn't have my own crystal."

Clarke pulls Madi closer and presses her cheek to her dark hair, her eyes fluttering shut with emotion. She can't speak for a moment, filled with fury.

"Madi," she says, her voice choked. "I hate them for making you feel like this."

"Hate is the path to the Dark Side," Madi quotes, and Clarke laughs bitterly. A common refrain from both their childhoods.

She sits back far enough to be able to see Madi's face without crossing her eyes again. Anya would know what to say. Anya _always_ knew. The pain and injustice of her absence hits Clarke all over again. Anya should be here, saying the right words, assuring Madi that she will grow up strong and good and important, but she's gone. It's just Clarke now, and Madi, and the ghosts they take with them. She will have to be good enough for Madi, somehow, when she hardly thinks she's been good enough for herself.

"I don't think the Jedi understand hate very well," Clarke says, searching for words just out of reach. "Or love. I'm still trying to figure it out myself, but... Madi, I don't think it's as simple as good and evil. I don't think people are born inherently one or the other, or meant to be one or the other. I think..." she brushes a tendril of dark hair out of Madi's enraptured eyes. "I think we just do our best," she says.

"What if I did my best to become a Sith?" Madi challenges.

Clarke gives her a _look_ and Madi cracks a tiny smile.

"You know what I mean," Clarke says softly. "Maybe we _are_ both vulnerable to the Dark Side. Maybe that's the cost of love for us. I refuse to believe that means we're doomed, Madi. I'm not giving up."

She thinks suddenly of Luna looking her in the eye after her Trials, her gaze ancient and terrible. _I came back from the Dark Side. But I was not the same person._

"The Dark Side isn't the end of the story, Madi," Clarke whispers, the understanding coming to her in pieces. She feels like she's on the cusp of something, a cliff, with the water beating against her ankles, the sun at the end of the tunnel far too bright to look at. She clutches at Madi's hand, squeezing her fingers around the kyber crystal that calls to her. "I think there's always a path back to the Light," she says.

"What about the evil Queen that took over your friends' planet?" Madi asks doubtfully.

Clarke swallows hard. The path she thought she saw forward, whatever the Force was trying to lead her to - it feels out of reach now. It fades like smoke between grasping fingers, leaving behind just a quiet hollowness.

"You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, I guess," she says at last.

Madi nods slowly, her face thoughtful, and that's enough for the time being. Clarke just needs her to have hope, to feel like there's a chance for her. Clarke brushes her mind against Madi's, pushing warm thoughts: the memory of how her father's smile made her feel, the best hugs she ever got, how Wells' secret cocoa recipe tasted.

"Thanks Clarke," Madi sighs, leaning into her. She fiddles with the kyber crystal in her hands. “So you're not going to make me put it back?”

“A good Jedi would,” Clarke says quietly. She sighs. “They would probably insist that you leave it and come back when the time is right. But I’m not a good Jedi.”

“Maybe this is the right time,” Madi says, looking hopeful despite her swollen eyes. “Maybe the Force wanted us to be here together.”

“Maybe,” Clarke echoes, smiling tentatively. She reaches out and curls Madi’s gloved fingers around her crystal, then squeezes tightly. “Let’s go.”

They find their way back up to the surface of Ilum, helping each other over icy patches and uneven ground. The snowstorm outside the Temple’s doorstep has eased in the time they spent underground – the sky is calm and clear enough that Clarke can see Raven, pacing back and forth in the ship’s opening from a distance away.

“I think something’s wrong,” Clarke says to Madi, and they both hurry towards the ship, at times nearly wading through the snowdrifts in their way. Sweat prickles on Clarke’s skin underneath the layers and layers of clothing as they reach the ship.

“They’re launching the attack on Mount Weather,” Raven says instead of a greeting.

“What?” Clarke says. “Already?”

“Yes. You missed Bellamy’s call by just a few minutes,” Raven says. Her bronze face is pale as she swings into the pilot’s seat and runs her pre-flight checks with comfortable ease. “It’s a four hour flight through hyperspace for us, a little over three from Arkadia. If we leave right now, we might still make it to the battle.”

“I thought we’d have more time,” Clarke says, looking over at Madi as Raven takes off and the starship tilts into a steep climb. “Madi – “

“We need to go,” Madi says, her voice strong and clear despite the worry Clarke feels from her in the Force. “What are we waiting for? We need to fight!”

“I promised you we wouldn’t put you in danger,” Clarke says desperately.

“Clarke,” Raven says in a tight voice. “We don’t have time for a detour to drop her off somewhere safe. Every minute we’re away from this battle could mean the difference between freeing Arkadia’s people, or losing.”

“We need to be there,” Madi says, looking earnestly into her eyes. Ilum is growing small and distant beneath them. A blue sky gives way to the abyss of space as they leave atmosphere.

“Give me my coordinates, ALI-E2,” Raven says, and receives a chattering of cheerful beeps in response. They hang just past orbit in Ilum for a moment. Raven turns her head to look pleadingly at Clarke. “Tell me you’re with me, Clarke. Don't make me miss this chance.”

Clarke swallows down the hard lump in her throat that rises up from both Madi and Raven staring at her.

“All right,” Clarke says. “Let’s go win the war.”

And she reaches out and pulls the lever to launch them into hyperspace.

 

 

 

 

 

**HYPERSPACE, EN ROUTE TO ZYGERRIA**

 

“Two minutes until realspace drop,” a crisp, robotic voice says.

“Uh huh,” Murphy acknowledges, blindly slapping his hand along his ship’s dashboard to silence the warning. It’s difficult partially because Emori is in his lap, obstructing his view, and partially because she’s mouthing at the junction of his neck and jaw that makes him want to shiver and curl up with her forever.

He can’t help but be disappointed when she finally pulls away, adjusting her perch over his thighs.

“I call gunner,” she says, and Murphy’s jaw drops in shock and betrayal. His fingers tighten on the curve of her waist, just above a belt well-stocked with grenades.

“No,” he says. “Absolutely not. You were gunner last time.”

“And I’m better at it,” Emori says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. The way she shifts her weight in his lap has Murphy glaring up at her for more reasons than one. He decides to switch gears.

“You don’t want me to be flying,” Murphy says coyly, and watches her eyes narrow an imperceptible amount as she tries to figure out what his new angle is. “Last time I was flying, I got us arrested by an Azgedan blockade. Remember how terrible that was?”

“And you want me to reward you for being a dumbass pilot by giving you gunner,” Emori says flatly.

“Yes,” Murphy nods.

“One minute, until realspace drop,” their shoplifted strategic droid tells them. “If I may be so bold as to give my own opinion – “

“You may not,” Emori says, without looking away from Murphy’s face. The droid completely ignores her. Murphy likes it because it’s a factory defect. Doesn’t take orders well. Doesn’t take orders at all, actually. The three of them, they’re a good team that way.

“ – our odds of survival will go up by 7% if Emori is the pilot of this mission rather than the gunner. However, if one of you does not get up and you are still conducting this staring contest when we commence the battle, our odds of survival will plateau at a total 3%.”

Emori’s eyes narrow further.

“He’s got a good point,” Murphy says slyly.

“Thirty seconds until realspace drop,” the droid continues.

“It’s been a while since we had a dangerous mission like this one,” Emori says, tracing the edge of Murphy’s jaw with one thumb. He tilts his head back, looking at her underneath his eyelashes. At his chin she abruptly goes south and rests her palm on his Adam’s apple. The solid pressure makes his breath hitch. “Let’s not make it too easy on those poor suckers.”

With that she clambers off his lap and swings through a hatch into the gunner’s nest all in one, elegant motion. Murphy watches her go and grins widely.

He reaches forward and grabs the ship’s throttle and controls just before hyperspace weakens around them, and they burst out into orbit around Zygerria; a massive clump of dessert and grasslands and misery.

All around them, the sky is suddenly populated by dozens and dozens of other ships dropping into formation around them. Mandalorian ships, Mon Calamari ships, Trigedakru ships, and a few other mercenaries like him and Emori, all arranged around two massive, slow-moving shuttles.

“Show them what you got, baby,” Murphy murmurs, snapping down his visor, and in his ear he hears Emori give a sound of agreement. He pictures her already barring her teeth, down below in the gunner’s nest, and gives the sandy planet far below a bloodthirsty grin.

 

 

 

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

"You're sure this will work?" Bellamy asks as the streaks of hyperspace solidify into points and the great mass of Zygerria looms up before them. Miller gives him a sharp look. 

"The time to doubt this plan is  _not_ right as we're launching the attack," Miller hisses. Bellamy gives him a _look_ because he's not particularly willing to admit Miller is right.

"I know my mother. If your Zygerrian defector is right about their meetings, her pride will not allow her to resist this chance to show off," Roan says on his other side, his voice smooth and pleased. Azgeda's exiled prince has deemed the attack a rare and auspicious enough occasion to merit not only an entire shirt but a rugged metal breastplate as well. The points of his teeth gleam white against his blue skin as they look down through the ship's windshield. To Miller, he says, "We couldn't have afforded to wait. Any longer and she'd make good use of that rhydonium fuel she mined from your lovely planet."

"She might still," Miller mutters. 

"We'll burn that bridge when we get to it," Bellamy says. He straightens his shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of his Arkadian armoured jacket upon them, and searches for the mindspace of razor-sharp clarity that comes with danger.

"Miss Charmaine is moving into position," Roan muses. He and Diyoza quickly settled into an alarmingly agreeable dynamic at the war council, and now Bellamy eyes Roan's obvious delight with some trepidation. He's not sure he's ready for those two to ally together. He's not sure the _galaxy_ is ready. But if Roan poses any danger to Arkadia, Bellamy won't know or be prepared to deal with it until after they confront Queen Nia. His mind needs to be on Mount Weather now. One last battle, and maybe they will be done with this war. Maybe it will be time to rebuild.

Bellamy juts his chin up. "Let's go. Eyes - "

" _Sharp_ , yes - " Miller starts to say. Bellamy hefts his blaster rifle into one arm to wrap Miller into a half-hearted headlock with the other.

 

 

 

 

 

**HYPERSPACE, ENROUTE TO ZYGERRIA**

 

After donning her father's armour - minus the helmet, because there's no time to get used to the way the visor obstructs her vision - Clarke sits cross-legged on the floor of Raven's _Spacewalker_. The crate of spare parts is at her side. She rummages through it and takes out components she'll need one by one. It's a slow process, since she had help constructing a lightsaber last time and her memory of the engineering specifics is a little hazy.

She glances at the front of the cockpit where Raven and Madi are breaking off chunks of a ration bar to share. Raven nods along as Madi fills her in on the latest rivalries and alliances among her peers at the Jedi Temple. Clarke is trying to concentrate on making her lightsaber, ideally without having to ask Raven for help, but it's hard to block out the impression she's getting from Madi's stories that she's alone and miserable at the Temple, forever separated from the other trainees by her belated arrival to the Order.

Clarke sighs.

There isn't enough time to work through this. The hyperspace jump to Zygerria is only four hours and she's already wasted the better part of one. They'll be coming out straight into a battle, and Clarke doesn't want to join the fray unarmed.

She tries to tune out Madi's soft voice and digs around in the crate until she finds a pair of pliers with an edge for wire cutting. She carefully strips away the protective coating on the ends of a handful of wires until enough metal is exposed to close a circuit. She deliberates between two energy gates and glumly swings a portion of metal pipe around. It's slightly too long to fit comfortably in her hand, but it'll have to do. 

Then she arranges all the chosen components on the floor in front of her, shoves the crate away, and closes her eyes. She breathes in and exhales, opening herself to the Force. The kyber crystal glows brilliantly in her mind. Clarke twitches her fingers and the crystal rises into the air first, followed smoothly by the rest of the components. She rotates them around with subtle wrist movements until the energy gate is in place at one end of the crystal and the wires are wrapping themselves into place. She floats the empty pipe closer and holds her breath as she slides the whole circuit in. It fits, and she exhales. The switch is the last piece, blocking off one end of the pipe. Not an ideal location for it, but the best she and Raven can do with their scavenged parts. Clarke twirls her fingers, and the last two loose ends coil themselves around the switch's conduits. The circuit is complete. Clarke slots the switch into place, wraps a piece of scrap metal around the rim to keep it in place, and releases the completed lightsaber. It falls into her waiting hands. She exhales shakily, feeling like she's just run a marathon.

"Is it done?" Madi asks, scrambling out of her seat and crouching in front of Clarke, her eyes wide and eager. 

"I think so," Clarke says hesitantly. 

"Well, turn it on!" Madi says. Clarke trades a glance with Raven, who's swiveled her seat around to watch and looks just as interested in the result as Madi, if a little more subtle about it.

Clarke raises the lightsaber and flicks the switch. 

Nothing happens. 

She flicks the switch again, just in case. Madi's face falls in disappointment. 

"Do you want me to take a look?" Raven asks. "I don't know what it's supposed to look like but I can guess."

"I'll give it another try first," Clarke says tiredly. "How much time do we have left?"

"About two hours," Raven says to Clarke's surprise. The trance hadn't felt so long when she was in it. She's only got two more tries to get this right. 

"Madi," Clarke says. "Would you like to meditate with me?"

"I thought you said you wouldn't let me make my own lightsaber," Madi says shrewdly.

"I'm not," Clarke says. "But you can still meditate with your crystal and it can focus the Force for you. Like a prism focuses light."

Madi scrambles away to fetch her crystal. Clarke looks around the cockpit and finds Raven's houseplant still buckled into one of the unused chairs. She releases it and floats it over to them just as Madi returns and sits down facing her.

"That's a pathetic plant," Madi says, eyeing its drooping leaves dubiously.

"Be nice, it can hear you," Clarke jokes. She sets it between them and hovers her hand above it. "Reach out," she tells Madi softly. "Can you feel the life flowing between the roots and the leaves?"

"I guess," Madi says, holding her crystal tightly with one hand and hesitantly stroking the surface of a yellowing leaf with the other. 

"We can help it along," Clarke says, and then she closes her eyes and _pours_ encouragement into the plant. The roots creep a fraction deeper into their soil. The stalks stand just a little bit firmer. 

"Water is more helpful than meditation," Raven teases. Clarke catches the water bottle she throws at her head without opening her eyes and grins. 

"Aww, you like our plant after all," Clarke teases back. She unscrews the cap and pours water into the dry soil. "Try again, Madi."

Madi furrows her eyebrows in concentration and they all watch as the plant slowly perks up further, the sickly yellow of its leaves giving way to a vibrant green. 

"Woah," Madi says, her face splitting into an awed and delighted smile as new buds begin to slowly grow. Clarke can't help but mirror her smile. Madi has a missing tooth in the corner of her smile, her adult tooth just now peeking through the gum. How did Clarke not notice that earlier? Her chest feels tight. 

"You're doing amazing," Clarke whispers. "Just keep going."

Then she closes her eyes and floats her lightsaber back up into the air. It comes apart for her as easily as a hot knife through butter, all the parts revealing themselves for her. Clarke can feel the warmth of Madi's meditation in the Force. The love and light of it illuminates the fault she couldn't see earlier. A ghostly afterimage crosses her perception: an orange hand with a warrior's calluses.  _You missed the connection here_ , a voice that sounds like Anya's says. Clarke secures the slipped wire and starts to compress the components back together. The circuit curls in on itself and slips into the hilt. The switch fastens to the end. The memory of a hand gives Clarke's hair a single, gentle stroke, and vanishes. 

Clarke releases her mental hold on the finished lightsaber and gasps for air. Madi's Force presence probes hers, inquisitive and worried. She's too young, too untrained to make much headway through Clarke's mental shielding. When Clarke opens her eyes Madi is leaning in very close, her face worried. The houseplant is overflowing with new foliage between them. 

"Are you okay?" Madi asks. "You're crying," she adds before Clarke has gathered her wits enough to respond.

"I'm okay," Clarke says, tentatively reaching a hand up to brush away the unexpected tears. "They're good tears, it's okay."

Madi sits back reluctantly. The houseplant sits between them like an overgrown hedge. 

"I kept going until you finished," Madi says with a shrug at the stems that are spilling past the flowerpot's edges. "I didn't know when to stop."

Clarke picks up her lightsaber and flicks the switch. It blazes to life with a shade of blue darker than her previous lightsaber. It's the colour of the edge of atmosphere where sky meets space. It hums through the air as Clarke gives it a tentative swing, mindful of the cockpit's restraints.

"You did great, Madi," Clarke says softly before turning the lightsaber off and tucking it into her belt. _This weapon is your life,_ a voice in her memory says. "My life is more than my weapon," she whispers to herself.

"What?" Madi asks. Clarke looks at her with her heart in her throat and thinks about the stars she wants Madi to see and the teeth that will fall out as she grows up and the easy way they meditated together, like they were coming home to each other. Her hands are shaking at her sides and she wants to cry again.

"Madi," Clarke says breathlessly. "I won't make you go back to the Temple after this if you don't want to. You could stay with me."

She hasn't finished the sentence before Madi's weight bowls into Clarke's stomach and her arms are thrown around her waist. And the Force - oh, it _resonates_ between them, vibrant and thrumming and beautiful, like a living thing yearning to be given a home.

 

 

 

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

It has been a long time since Charmaine Diyoza fought for something she believed in. Up until her fleet of commandeered Eligius drilling ships entered Zygerria's hazy atmosphere she could tell herself that it was Blake's promises of gold and land that brought her loyalty. But as they descend upon Mount Weather's compound and the ship around her begins to shake and rumble as the drills slowly start up, she cannot lie anymore. Her racing heartbeat and the swell in her chest betray her. 

It seems that she is still an idealistic fool after all, somewhere underneath the years of bitter failure. Charmaine's people are long gone, but Arkadia's might still be within reach. 

"Start digging, boys!" she shouts out, and all around her, her crew rev their engines and get to work. Mount Weather has finally started to launch their air defense, several minutes too late. _Pathetic_. Charmaine barely pays them any mind - if the rest of Blake's mismatched armada is halfway competent, they'll never get near her and her crew. 

The first drill bites into Zygerria's sunbaked earth and it gives away underneath their onslaught with minimal resistance. A moment later, over the deafening drone of machinery, Charmaine hears a low _thud_ and feels her ship shudder around her, rattling her teeth in her skull. The drills have caught on concrete underneath the earth. 

"Buried treasure," Charmaine murmurs, cupping the curve of her stomach. "The cat was telling the truth, after all."

 

 

 

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

In the chambers beneath the earth, Sergeant David Miller of the Arkadian Guard has the odd sensation that the world is shivering around him.

He considers a few possibilities, very quickly. The first is dehydration, which is possible, but unlikely. Their captors have been giving them just enough food and water to keep them going, if not quite strong enough to launch an escape attempt on their own. The second is some kind of drug in the meal they’ve just been given, but they haven’t been drugged since they first got here, and David doesn’t feel the fuzzy, painful throbbing between his temples that he felt back then. So he’s probably not hallucinating.

The third possibility, and the most likely, is that he is just very, very bored.

He eyes the small cup of water he was just drinking, and then sets it down in front of him. It sits innocently, half-full, beneath his outstretched hand.

Next to him, Tor Lemkin - a farmer who was torn from his home on the opposite side of Arkadia from David – eyes his cup.

“Are you going to drink that?” Lemkin asks hoarsely. David knows he’s not asking for himself, no matter how much the bulky man is suffering under their rations. It’s for his daughter, picking listlessly at her cutlery on his other side.

“Look at it,” David says in a quiet voice. Even though he’s trying to keep it low, the other prisoners near him start to crane their necks to see what’s going on. David doesn’t consider himself a leader, despite his rank in the Guard. He’s always thought of himself as just an honest man trying to keep people safe, but the way the other prisoners have consistently gravitated towards him for safety and support has him thinking he might have to reassess that.

“What?” Lemkin asks, frowning.

“It’s shaking,” David says, and indeed, the water in his tiny cup is rippling without him touching it. Something is sending vibrations through the earth around them.

“Could it be an earthquake?” someone asks.

“It’s not an earthquake,” Lemkin argues, crossing his arms over his chest. David eyes the water in the cup. It’s rippling more strongly now. Something thuds far above them, like the footstep of a massive animal. A second thud follow seconds later and sends particles of sand crumbling from the ceiling onto the heads of a thousand curious and anxious prisoners.

“What is it then?”

“The apocalypse!”

“Someone come to rescue us!”

“Don’t be absurd, it’s more likely someone come to - ”

The blooming clamour quiets before it gets unbearable by one voice that cuts out above all the rest.

“Sergeant Miller! Sergeant Miller, what do _you_ think it is?”

Dozens and dozens of eyes turn to focus upon him at once. David wets his dry lips nervously.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, “For now, everyone move as close to the walls as you can. We have to stay calm and ready for it, whatever it is."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out a reference on [Mandalorian armour](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mandalorian_armor) here. If I remember correctly each Mandalorian is supposed to make their own, which is badass, but doesn't suit my purposes. We are all going to pretend that it was the will of the Force that Jake Griffin just happened to make her armour that fits perfectly several years later.
> 
> Raven's starfighter is loosely based on an [ARC-170](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Aggressive_ReConnaissance-170_starfighter) because it's snazzy and she's an overachiever. 
> 
> The myth Bellamy uses to "encourage" his attack force is the second of this fic's three references to [Orpheus and Eurydice](https://www.greekmyths-greekmythology.com/orpheus-and-eurydice/). Nerd.
> 
> [Kyber crystals](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Kyber_crystal) power lightsabers ~~and also Death Stars, thus the plot of Rogue One~~. [Ilum](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Ilum) is not the only place you can find one, but it's the one I'm most familiar with and I like its aesthetic. I actually [broke away from canon](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Jedi_Temple_\(Ilum\)) for once to streamline their entrance into the Temple, you're supposed to wait for the sun to line up through some lenses to melt the ice blah blah blah please, I think we're all in a hurry to get Clarke back to her soulmate after I've made you wait a few chapters. ~~(sorry.)~~
> 
> Sheidheda gave me huge Sith vibes in the 6x07 episode and I screamed with how perfectly it fit with this chapter. [Tor Lemkin and his daughter Reese](https://the100.fandom.com/wiki/Tor_and_Reese_Lemkin) are minor Arkers from season 1 that I still stubbornly adore. Jess has been pointing out every single instance so far of Clarke being a bad Jedi with unrestrained glee and Jess, I hope you enjoyed Clarke finally arriving at the same conclusion. Come yell with me on tumblr, I'm your friendly neighbourhood [kindclaws](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/).


	17. how the light gets in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS** : classic Star Wars-style amputation, lots of violence, children on battlefields, characters aggravating their injuries, and some major character's fates are unclear at the end of this chapter. It's not as bad as chapter 11, but if you're concerned about that and don't want to wait for the epilogue to clear things up, you are _absolutely welcome_ to [contact me on tumblr](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/). Likewise, if you think you may need Octavia-specific content warnings, message me!!
> 
> Also this is another LONG CHAPTER: just under 15k, which is why I had to split chapter 16 and 17 in half. :P Take care of your irl responsibilities first before you sit down for this last chapter. Title and reference from Leonard Cohen's Anthem.

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

Bellamy's throat burns with every breath he takes. He avoided the worst of the poison fog that Mount Weather released as his ground troops got too close to the holes Diyoza's crew punched into the fortress, but his eyes still water at the sting of air scraping its way in and out of his lungs. It's not enough to stop him. Not now, not when they're so close. Nothing shorter than a grave could keep him away now.

Jasper is the only familiar face in the squadron of rebels that kept pace with him - the Mandalorians fared better than most, with their helmets. Jasper's fingers twitch along the barrel of his blaster as Bellamy kneels next to the guard Jasper just knocked out. The guard's comm is fastened to a wristguard. Bellamy has to hold the limp arm at an angle to raise the microphone to his mouth.

"This is Bellamy Blake," he says. "Put Senator Cage on the line."

He's promptly told to engage in some rude, anatomically unlikely activities. Bellamy exhales heavily, takes a deep breath in, and holds the button down again.

"I'm not interested in more bloodshed than necessary. But I'm not going home without my people. So weigh the costs and put Cage on the line."

There's a shuffle on the other end, broken by static. Over the next dune Bellamy can still hear the high-pitched whistle of blasterfire and the low rumble as pieces of debris from the space battle over their heads begin to rain down into desert. They have a moment of relative safety now, but there's no telling how long it will last. The hair on the back of Bellamy's neck stands on end.

"Speaking."

Bellamy can't help the grimace he makes at the sound of Cage's voice. He still remembers meeting the Zygerrian Senator on Coruscant. The way he'd tried to intimidate Bellamy. The rigid set of Clarke's shoulders as she put herself in the middle. He won't feel the slightest scrap of remorse if Cage is one of today's casualties. He doesn't have to be, if he stays out of Bellamy's way.

"Let my people go, Cage," Bellamy snarls into the comm. Jasper shuffles his feet at his side.

"You're infringing on a business contract that has nothing to do with you," Cage starts to complain.

"They're _my people_ ," Bellamy cuts in. "Their imprisonment is not _business_."

Cage sputters.

"This - this invasion is an act of war," he says.

"Is that what you'll tell the Senate?" Bellamy asks lowly. "Before or after you mention starting up a forbidden trade? Let my people go or I will tear this fortress apart. This isn't Coruscant. There's no higher authority to negotiate with, Cage. There's just me. And I'm not playing by the rules anymore. I'll win."

"Do your worst," Cage says. "Zygerria doesn't surrender."

"You will," Bellamy promises. He meets Jasper's haunted eyes, then covers the unconscious guard's face with one hand and points at a barren patch of sand with another. "Shoot him," he tells Jasper, making sure the comm line is open and shaking his head vigorously.

Jasper lines up his blaster and puts a smoldering hole in the patch of sand. Bellamy lets the conversation with Cage end on the sound of that shot. He drops the guard's wrist and stands up.

"Let's keep going," he says to the rebels clustered protectively around him. And they march on, gazes set on the holes Diyoza has so helpfully torn in Mount Weather's defences. The acrid taste of poison in the back of Bellamy's throat is getting easier and easier to breathe through.

 

 

 

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

Alarms ring as Raven slows the ship in preparation for exiting hyperspace. 

"Brace yourselves," she says. Clarke reaches out to tug on Madi's harness and reassure herself that it's secure. 

"I'm _fine_ ," Madi grumbles, flicking her hand away. The streaks of blurred stars all around them shorten into points. The ship shudders, and the harness digs into Clarke's chest, and then they're suddenly thrust back into realspace directly into the midst of an airborne battle.

Up ahead the wreck of a Zygerrian destroyer lists heavily to its starboard side and trails debris from the gaping, burning hole in its flank. Tiny Mandalorian fighters swarm around its cockpit.

Multicoloured laser bolts streak in every direction across their view, some coming close enough to leave bright, searing lines on Clarke's vision. She blinks them away and struggles to focus with the magnitude of the battle around them as the residual velocity from their hyperspace jump carries them helplessly forward. Raven curses, her voice barely audible over the wail of her ship's proximity sensors, which are going utterly haywire from all the debris hanging in the sky over Zygerria. She shoves the throttle forwards, slamming her fighter's nose into a deep dive in an effort to avoid colliding with a jagged chunk of metal that's been torn out of the destroyer and is now hurtling end over end towards them. They're still carrying too much speed, and there's not enough room to maneuver, not surrounded as they are by dozens of dogfights firing out cascades of lasers. The alarms scream. Raven isn't going to get them out of the way in time.

Clarke throws her palms up and _shoves_. The Force is a high-pitched whine in her ears, an engine pushed past its limits, a fabric nearly torn. The jagged piece of metal that's bigger than they are tilts ever so slightly in its trajectory. It's only a few degrees, but that's all they needed. Clarke and Raven and Madi all look up to watch it spin over their heads, the nearest edge coming within a hairs-breadth of the domed windshield. Clarke feels more than she hears the collective sigh of relief before Raven slams her palm down on the dashboard and silences the proximity alarms. 

This has all happened in a matter of seconds. As Raven jerks the joystick to dodge laser shots from another Zygerrian destroyer, Madi lets out a sob and reaches across the cockpit, her hand clutching at Clarke's armrest. Clarke immediately shifts her arm so Madi can hold her hand. Their fingers squeeze together as Raven fires off a shot that blows off the wing of a Zygerrian fighter and sends them spiraling down towards the sandy surface of their planet. Clarke can feel the battle all around them, masses of people packed together, experiencing adrenaline and terror and death. It's not new for her, but Madi has probably never felt anything on this scale 

"I know," Clarke says, her heart a cold lump in her chest. "We're going to end it as fast as possible."

It would be easier if she knew where to start. The designs and colors of the starships that spin dizzyingly around them tell Clarke that the arena of politics must have been busy since Bellamy walked away from it. She sees dark green bombers from Trigedakru flying in formation with her mother's Mandalorian fighters and a Mon Calamari control ship supervising the offence far above them. Either the Senate's made a decision while she and Madi were underground on Ilum, or more systems have followed Bellamy's example and broken away from the Senate entirely. Clarke screws her eyes tight and tries to think. 

"Raven," she says. "Can you drop me off on the surface? That's where Bellamy will be."

If she knows him as well as she thinks she does.

"On it," Raven says, pushing the ship into a sharp dive that makes Clarke's stomach climb into her throat. A Zygerrian fighter tries to follow them into atmosphere. Raven cuts the engines, flips around, and decimates it with her turrets before flipping the nose back around to face Zygerria. The planet is bright and beige beneath them, growing larger every heartbeat. Clarke sees white concrete cities dot the desert, surrounded by sandstorms. One of them is burning on the outskirts. Plumes of smoke drift high into the sky.

"That'll be Mount Weather," Clarke says grimly, watching it grow larger in the windshield. 

"Get ready," Raven says. "You can hit the ground running, right? I'm going to rejoin the aerial battle as soon as I drop you off."

"You read my mind," Clarke says with a grim smile. She squeezes Raven's shoulder, a silent plea for her to be careful.

"Clarke," Madi says in distress. Clarke unbuckles her seat harness and pats her hip to reassure herself that the unfamiliar weight of her new lightsaber still hangs there. Then she bends over Madi's seat and gives her a fleeting kiss on the forehead. 

"Raven is the best pilot in the galaxy," Clarke promises. "You'll be safe with her."

"We shouldn't be separated," Madi says fearfully. Clarke remembers thinking the same thing, only months ago, when Anya charged her with escorting Bellamy safely to Coruscant. 

"Be brave," Clarke says, forcing a smile as Raven slows the ship over the outskirts of the land offensive. She takes one last look at Raven and Madi, and then she opens the hatch and leaps out, mid-flight. 

The _Spacewalker_ coasts only a few meters above the surface of the desert. Clarke uses the Force to cushion her fall and rolls when she hits the sand, dispersing the impact along one shoulder and across her back. Sand tumbles from the creases in her father's armour as she stands and scans the horizon. Her pulse roars in her ears.

The frontlines are up ahead. From the wreckages half-buried in the sand around her, Clarke guesses that Bellamy's rebels landed nearby and then pushed forward into Mount Weather's defences. If she's learned anything from his past style, if he's learned anything from her strategy, then there will be at least another prong to the attack, smaller forces moving in to take advantage of the ruckus. It itches at her, like a thorn caught under the skin, that she wasn't part of this, that Bellamy's moved to the offensive without her, that he didn't wait. They should finish this together. She needs to be at his side. 

Clarke finds a speeder half-buried in the sand and wrenches it out. She pays no attention to the limp body next to it that bears the distinctive helmet of Mount Weather's military force. The Force tells her that its bearer is too dead to benefit from any healing. The crashed speeder isn't in great condition either, but Clarke spins it over itself with the Force, shaking streams of sand out of the engine intake pipes, and finally clambers on. She presses herself low to the speeder's body as it races over the dunes and carries her towards the battle. Sand kicked up by the wind stings her squinted eyes and scours her cheeks. The clump of hair where her Padawan braid used to hang is too short to be braided back with the rest of her hair and whips her in the face relentlessly. Part of her wishes she was wearing the helmet Jake made for her along with the rest of the armour, but there was no time to get used to the claustrophobic weight of it on her head or the way the distinctive visor would have limited her vision in a fight.

In a matter of moments Clarke has reached a small clump of rebels pinned down behind an overturned rover and trading blaster bolts with a squadron of Mount Weather guards. When the first guards turn their blasters towards her, Clarke waves her hand abruptly and jerks their barrels sideways so the shots strike their companions instead. Most of the squadron has crumpled into the sand by the time they realize what's happening and stop firing. As the remainder of the guards flee to regroup elsewhere, Clarke brings the speeder to a sharp halt in front of the crouched rebels. Up close she sees it's a mix of Arkadia's resistance and her mother's Mandalorian army. 

"Where's Bellamy?" she asks, mostly addressing the Arkadians of the group.

"I think he's leading the advance," one of the rebels says, blinking rather dazedly at her. "Are you his Jedi? The one that - "

"Thanks," Clarke says, and kicks her speeder into high gear and races off before she can hear the rest of that sentence. 

As she's leaning low along the speeder, her eyes fixed on the plumes of smoke up ahead, something in the Force _shifts_. It hurts so much that she nearly falls off the speeder. With a cry she pulls herself back into the seat and grits her teeth against the sharp pressure in her skull.

She twists her head up and looks at the aerial battle in Zygerria's atmosphere with mounting dread. 

Reinforcements for Zygerria have just dropped out of hyperspace and are joining the fight. One of them is Octavia and if Clarke thought she was strong in the Force before, it is _nothing_ compared to Octavia's presence after a few weeks under the tutelage of a Sith Master. Clarke retreats from the Force, from the reckless waves of anger and misery that Octavia is pouring out so strongly that Clarke can sense them from the surface of the planet. It clouds her perception of the Force, blotting out any trace of Bellamy she might have been able to hone in on.

She'll just have to find him the hard way.

She stops at several more skirmishes along the way, each time causing massive disarray in the Mount Weather squadrons and asking the rebels for directions to Bellamy. Some of the suggestions contradict each other. One group last saw him fighting on that ridge over there, another group says he never got to the ridge and changed course to avoid cannisters of chemical fog launched by Mount Weather into their midst. The rebels react to her violent whirlwind through the battlefield with a mixture of dazed delight and fear. Clarke would pause to worry about scaring them, to wonder what it is about her that comes across as more terrible than usual, but her thoughts are like a glitching hologram call, doomed to repeat the same scraps of messages over and over.  _Bellamy._ His hand, cupping her cheek. Crouching down to speak softly to Charlotte. The smoldering fury that drove his speeches and their rebellion, the way it would hit her in the heart and leave her breathless. And repeat - his hand, cupping her cheek, the emotion in his eyes she is afraid to name. _I have to find Bellamy._ There's no room for anything else.

At the third skirmish a lucky blaster bolt from a Zygerrian hits Clarke's speeder in the engine and she's forced to throw herself off it as it begins to explode underneath her. The flaming shell of the speeder continues forward, carried by her breakneck speed, and careens into the firing squad. Clarke stumbles to her feet and keeps going, close enough to the front lines now that she's sure she can make it on foot. _What I wouldn't give for a goddamn jetpack_ , she thinks savagely, before pushing the useless thought away.

She finds another group of Mount Weather guards sheltered under a dirt overhang and uses the Force to tear out the withered tree whose dried roots valiantly hold the overhang together. It comes crumbling down, burying the guards. Clarke stalks forward, grabs a guard digging himself out of the collapse, and heaves him up to face her by the collar of his uniform.

"Where are the Arkadian prisoners?" she asks with a snarl, knowing she's likely to find Bellamy there. The guard coughs up sand and scrambles weakly at his belt. When he unholsters a spare handblaster and tries to shoot her, Clarke ignites her lightsaber in her spare hand and cuts it in half. The guard looks at the smoldering end of his blaster, useless with the barrel chopped off and steaming in the sand at their feet, and makes a distressed choking sound that has very little to do with the dirt he swallowed or the way Clarke's grip is digging his uniform into his neck. Her fist shakes on his collar.  _If Bellamy is dead -_ but no, he can't be. She'd feel it, even light-years apart, even though he's not Force-sensitive. Stars don't die quietly. Supernovas tear hyperspace lanes apart. If he was dead, if it was over - Clarke would know. The Mount Weather guard claws at her grip and Clarke's eyes narrow. "You _will_ tell me - " Clarke starts to say, her voice laced with compulsion, and the guard's eyes go dazed and unfocused. 

"Clarke!" a familiar voice calls, shattering her concentration.

Clarke drops the guard and turns, her heart leaping into her chest. A helmeted Arkadian rebel is running towards her, a ragged cloth shielding his mouth and nose from the sand and from her view, but Clarke recognizes the set of his broad shoulders.

"Miller!" Clarke yells back and closes the distance between them. He holds up a massive repeating blaster with some difficulty and grins at her, the most teeth she's ever seen from him. It's terrifying. She hopes it goes down in history.

"Look!" he says. "Diyoza loaned me her gun. Isn't it awesome?"

Clarke matches Miller's wide smile before sweeping him into a hasty hug. "Very awesome. I'm glad you're safe. Where's Bellamy?" 

"Up ahead," Miller says, and Clarke feels the cold claws of fear ease their grip on her heart. "We were separated by that damn acid fog. Good of you to join us."

"Couldn't miss it," Clarke says, though she still feels a painful twinge of guilt when she remembers the fear in Madi's eyes. She swings her lightsaber and deflects a few bolts that come too close to them for comfort. "Was he safe?"

"He was last I saw him," Miller says grimly as they close the remaining distance to Mount Weather. The mouth of the prison yawns above them, a giant metal semi-circle with bolts locking it that look like teeth. Someone has torn a huge chunk out of it, leaving the metal twisted and mangled in their wake. "The Eligius drills broke through," Miller says, nodding at it. "Bellamy got them to come around after all."

Clarke smiles wryly despite her worry.

"Our Senator has that effect," she says. He's close now. He must be. Clarke holds her lightsaber up, both as a defense and a source of light, and steps into the jagged hole of the underworld with Miller at her back.

 

 

 

 

  

**IN ORBIT AROUND ZYGERRIA**

 

ALI-E2 beeps a frantic warning as a Zygerrian fighter's targeting system locks on  _Spacewalker_. Raven groans loudly and slams the ship into a deep dive behind a slow-moving destroyer, hoping the weapons lock will miscalculate. Her dashboard shows that the fighter is still close on her tail. Madi makes a quiet, afraid noise.

"Raven!" a familiar voice crackles over her comms. "Moving to your six, keep evasive action. I got you."

She's so startled to hear him that her hands momentarily freeze on the controls. Only the bright flash of laser fire skimming right past her flank - far too close for comfort - shocks her back into movement. Raven ducks under the next barrage and twists around just in time to see her enemy tail torn apart by laser fire. 

"Zeke," Raven breathes, seeing the small bomber ship that flies through the cloud of smoke and debris to join her. They’re too far apart for Raven to clearly see the face in the cockpit, but she knows it's him. She’s known him only by his voice for a long time.

"You're welcome," he says over the comms. She can hear the wry smile. "My squadron has an empty spot. Congratulations, you're now Red Three."

"Is that your boyfriend?" Madi asks, making a face at her. 

"Kid, we got bigger priorities," Raven retorts. "Keep an eye on the instruments."

"I guess it's kind of romantic," Madi muses, completely ignoring her. 

"Murphy, Emori, Byrne, this is Raven," Zeke introduces her. Raven absently responds to the chorus of dry greetings. The other pilots rearrange themselves to fit her in. There's no time to think here - they move on instinct. Raven's heart pounds in her chest, something afraid and longing and more alive than it's ever been. The danger has woken something up in her. The races on Coruscant were child's play compared to this - even her memories of pod-racing on Tattooine pale in comparison. She desperately wants the battle that rages around her to end and at the same time cannot imagine anything other than it. 

They make quick work of a nearby Zygerrian supplier and then swivel around at the edge of the battlefield, looking for a new target. That’s when things start going wrong. A wave of new, unfamiliar ships exit hyperspace just over their heads. Raven's comms alight with questions from the other pilots - is it another ally, arriving late? The battlefield over Zygerria is already a patchwork of alliances - a handful of remaining Arkadian fighters, a Mon Calamari control ship, a whole swarm of Mandalorian Fang fighters, bombers from Trikru, and a lone Azgedan craft that apparently belongs to the exiled prince no one updated Raven on. It's a lot to keep track of - Raven just focuses on shooting anything of Zygerrian make. 

The unfamiliar arrivals descend upon the battle and everyone holds their breaths. Raven squints across the distance, trying to match the silhouettes with the designs she knows. For a moment there is only the stillness of anticipation - and then the new ships start firing and a Trikru bomber goes spiraling down in flames. Raven blinks, frozen for a moment by the cries of dismay that rise over her comms.

"Watch out!" Madi cries, and Raven catches herself just before she pilots her ship into a spiraling chunk of debris. She pulls the joystick up sharply and coasts over it, her heart pounding at the close call.

"Well, they've made their loyalties clear," Raven mutters darkly. As one her squadron moves tighter together to face the new threats. Beside her, Madi leans forward, staring out the windshield with frightening focus. Her eyebrows are furrowed together in concentration.

"Gold Two, not there!" another pilot says quickly. Fire blooms on the edges of Raven's vision. "Anywhere but there!" she breaks off into swears that end in static. More explosions on the outskirts. Half a squadron wiped out in a handful of heartbeats. Raven presses her lips together in a hard line and disconnects that particular channel. 

A dark, predatory looking starfighter rises up to greet her: one of the unfamiliar craft that showed up to reinforce the Zygerrian fleet. Even up close Raven doesn't recognize the design, and that terrifies her. She's Coruscant's best mechanic - or was, until she quit dramatically. She thought she knew every ship, all their capabilities, all their weaknesses. 

"That's her," Madi says suddenly. Her hands are shaking where they grip her armrests. "That's Octavia. It has to be."

“Good to know," Raven says, spiraling to avoid a cascade of lasers. She slams the joystick into a sharp turn and brings the nose of her ship up behind the dark little starfighter that Madi's staring at. And she fires. Octavia's starfighter jerks out of way of the first bolt. It does not avoid the second bolt. 

Madi cries out as though she's been struck as the wing of Octavia's starfighter explodes in flame. The fighter tumbles over itself, leaving a spiral of debris and smoke behind as it falls to Zygerria. 

"That's Octavia!" Madi says.

"Yeah, that's why I shot her," Raven retorts, dodging out of the way of a swarm of tiny drone fighters who try to take revenge. "Close your eyes. It'll be over soon."

"I can still _feel_ it," Madi says with a sob, and Raven's stomach lurches with guilt as the girl next to her begins to cry. 

 

 

 

 

 

**UNDERGROUND, ZYGERRIA**

 

The hallways of Mount Weather are lit only by the eerie red glow of emergency lighting strips along the floors and ceilings. Miller keeps his blaster up and his eyes down the length of the dim corridor as he and Clarke gingerly step over the bodies that litter the halls. The ones wearing Zygerrian armour are easier to ignore, but his stomach rolls with dread each time they pass a fallen rebel or Arkadian prisoner. 

Bellamy told them not to count their losses until after the battle is won, but Miller feels a sickening wave of relief every time he doesn't recognize a face. 

"The control room is this way," Clarke says lowly, nodding at a branching intersection. 

"Cameras?" he guesses.

"And someone to blame, if we're lucky," Clarke says. Her eyes are cold and distant. The blue light of her lightsaber casts her face into deep, frightening shadows. 

Miller is glad they're on the same side when they turn the corner and encounter a small patrol of Mount Weather guards. He takes out the first two with his blaster. Clarke has sliced through the rest before the first bodies have fallen to the floor. 

They encounter more resistance near the control room - the rebel forces that pushes their way in earlier took an easier route to the prisoner detainment areas, and a good chunk of the Zygerrian squadrons still within the Mount Weather compound have retreated closer to command. Miller keeps his back to the wall and his blaster steady and doesn't allow fear to breach his mind as he and Clarke cut a path through. 

Inside the control room, Clarke makes a sharp sweeping motion with her hand and every single remaining guard goes flying up to the ceiling and is knocked unconscious when they drop back down to the floor. One man is left standing - Senator Cage, who throws his hands up in the air to show that he's unarmed, but makes no effort to smother the ever present sneer on his feline face. 

"I was wondering if Blake's pet Jedi would join the fray," he says haughtily, as though they've merely interrupted afternoon tea. Miller hefts his blaster up and keeps his sights on the Senator's chest even as every part of him begs to peek at the security monitors behind him. 

"I'm not a Jedi anymore, Cage," Clarke bites out. "That's unlucky for you. Means I don't have to keep the same moral standards."

Cage's smile falters only slightly. 

"You can hardly blame me for my actions," he says, and Miller can't stop the bark of laughter that bursts out of his throat. _Spoken like a true demagogue!_ "Azgeda started it, but how could I resist the opportunity to rebuild my family's empire when - "

What might have continued into an entire speech is abruptly cut off by the hum of a lightsaber and a strangled sound. Cage falls to his knees in slow motion with wide, frozen eyes and a perfectly round hole through his chest. Miller can't bring himself to feel much pity. He straightens up and crosses the remaining distance to the security monitors in a few long strides, trusting Clarke to watch the room for any lingering dangers. 

Several of the screens show only static - probably the consequence of a deliberate effort from the rebels to make their progress harder to track, or an accident in the chaos of firefight, but Miller's eyes quickly find movement on a few of the remaining broadcasts.

"There," he says quickly, jabbing his finger at a projection of one of the upper levels. "It looks like they're almost done the evacuation."

Clarke leans in to look over his shoulder. He hears her draw in a sharp breath as a familiar figure stops in his tracks on the edge of a long line of escaping prisoners. 

"He's alive," she says, her shoulders sagging with relief and her eyes drinking in the sight of Bellamy, blurry and pixelated as it is. 

"You can make hearteyes later - " Miller begins to say, before catching sight of his own ghost on the screens. "Dad," he breathes. For a moment every muscle in his body is paralyzed, then he manages to shake himself out of it and grabs Clarke's elbow. "Come on," he says. "They're nearly outside."

Miller's heart pounds as he follows Clarke through twisting hallways and the aftermath of several skirmishes. When they burst out into blinding sunlight and he sees his father helping another survivor out into the desert, his mouth goes as dry as dust. 

"Dad!" he yells, breaking into a sprint. "Dad!"

Sergeant Miller's head jerks up. As Miller's voice cracks on the third shout for him, he swivels around, his eyes frantically searching the crowd of survivors that's spilled out into the desert. 

"Nathan?" David calls out, almost disbelieving. He takes a few hesitant steps forward, still peering at the face of every person who pushes past him on their way to the safety of the shuttles. 

"Over here!" Miller yells. "Dad!" and finally, _finally_ , his father's eyes connect with his. David's face breaks into an awed smile and he begins to run too, closing the distance between him and his son. His arms spread wide and Miller doesn't think to slow his momentum before barreling into them hard enough to knock David back two steps. 

"Watch it kid," David wheezes as Miller throws his arms around his waist and presses his cheek to the coarse and grimy material of his father's shirt. "You're not ten years old anymore. You're gonna break your old man's back."

"Hi Dad," Miller says quietly, squeezing his eyes tight. If this is a dream, he doesn't want to wake up. 

But when he opens his eyes and lets go, his father is still standing in front of him. He's a little worse for wear, but he's safe and smiling. 

"Let's get you home," Miller says. Then he wrinkles his nose dramatically. "You need a shower."

"Give me a break," David says, rolling his eyes as he tosses an arm over Miller's shoulders and pickpockets one of his handblasters. "If I could put up with how bad you smelled while you were going through puberty, you can put up with how bad I smell after being held captive for months."

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ZYGERRIA**

 

And then, because the day hasn't gone badly enough yet - the proximity sensors begin to scream. Raven thinks they're malfunctioning, at first. The projection that comes up on her dashboard makes her reel back in horror – the numbers are  _impossible_ , they’re saying that a fortress of absolutely horrific proportions is about to drop into realspace over their heads. It shouldn’t be real. It can’t be.

But when Madi starts screaming and clutching her head, Raven decides to trust the kid’s Force instincts. She didn’t recognize Octavia’s model of starfighter earlier, either. It looks like Azgeda had some tricks up its sleeve all this time.

“Dive!” she yells to her squadron. “Dive  _right now!”_

“My sensors are malfunctioning,” one of the Trikru pilots responds.

“It’s not a mistake,  _dive_ ,” Raven insists, and she spares a brief flicker of relief when she sees the streaks of other ships following her lead and making steep nose-dives out of the way.

But not everyone listens.

The needles on Raven's dashboard spin uselessly within their dials, on and on, endlessly scrambling to measure the impossible. A star destroyer of epic proportions has just exited hyperspace, right where Raven and her squadron were furiously fighting. The displacement in the sky sends  _Spacewalker_ reeling through the air, and it’s all Raven can do to put all her weight into the joystick and just barely maneuver them away from hurtling debris. She promised Clarke they'd stay safe - it's the only thing she can focus on now. Her head pounds with the crackle of static over the comms that tells her the ships that didn’t get out of the way in time have been completely disintegrated. In the passenger seat, Madi is still quietly groaning.

Raven finds a relatively safe stretch of space above Zygerria and flips back around to face the battle. The massive star destroyer -  _what the fuck do I even call that thing? -_ has scattered everyone, enemies and allies alike, uncaring who it crushed with its arrival. Its shadow dwarfs the entire rest of the battlefield: their starfighters could be children's toys, for all they compare in scale. She has no idea where the rest of her squadron has gone or how to face that thing.

As the turrets on its underside start to open fire on the Arkadian-aligned fleet, Raven only knows that she has to stop it. Somehow. 

 

 

 

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

Bellamy's shoulder throbs painfully where a blaster bolt cracked his armour and grazed the muscle, but he hefts most of the weight of his blaster rifle into the other arm and tries to ignore it.

His eyes never stop roving over the trickle of Arkadian prisoners that stumble unsteadily over the doorstep of their prison, blinking in shock at their first sight of the sun in weeks. They're completely vulnerable. They already lost a few lives to unexpected guard patrols that caught their rebel escorts by surprise, and Bellamy knows he'll never forgive himself for not protecting them better. 

Monty and Harper are waiting for them with two massive passenger shuttles guarded by a determined swarm of starfighters that chase off any approaching Zygerrian attack. Bellamy's stomach rolls with nervousness as the first shuttle lands in a patch of cleared sand outside the prison compound. The rebel ground forces regroup, their mismatched helmets bobbing along the beige landscape as they take up positions to secure a safe passage for the prisoners to the shuttles. 

A flash of red and black makes Bellamy turn just as Jasper lopes to him, his long and lanky legs closing the distance in only a few steps. 

"The west entrance is safe," Jasper says, panting with exertion. 

"Lead them out," Bellamy instructs, scanning the scene. 

Jasper opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything a shrill whistle cuts him off, growing louder and louder until it's deafening. He and Bellamy look up to see an unfamiliar black starfighter trailing a corkscrew of smoke through the sky as it plummets towards them. The fighter's fuselage is still intact but the flaming stump where one wing has been shot off makes Bellamy doubt the craft's chances at a safe landing. _Unless_... he thinks to himself as they watch the craft struggle to stabilize itself. He feels dread creep along his spine like cold fingers. _Unless the pilot is very, very good._

Bellamy feels the fighter's impact into the sand vibrate through the soles of his feet and into his bones. A shockwave of displaced sand follows a moment later, making him raise his arm up to shield his face from the sting. The blaster wound on his shoulder throbs in protest. 

The sand settles. The fighter sits in a small crater, smoldering. The windshield has a huge crack down the middle, with a few chunks having fallen out, and a gloved hand starts punching at the fractures from within the burning craft. Bellamy swallows hard. 

"Keep everyone moving towards the shuttle," he says through the dry ache of his throat. His voice sounds distant from himself, drowned out by the beat of his heart pulsing in his ears. Bellamy doesn't hear Jasper's reply. He hefts his blaster rifle higher and starts walking, his eyes fixed on the flaming wreckage. The hand within the ruined craft has started clearing out a small space, not yet large enough for someone to slip out, but widening with every moment. 

Bellamy has nearly reached the wreck when the hand successfully tears off one last large chunk of windshield. He holds his breath as Octavia slips out, apparently uncaring of the scratches the jagged edges of the glass leave on her bare shoulders, the strip of skin where her shirt rides up above her pants. She stumbles into the sand, looking small and dazed and hurt, and Bellamy runs.

"Octavia!" he calls, his voice cracking on her name, his vocal chords worn out by hours of shouting orders during the attack. 

His little sister staggers to her feet, swaying dangerously. Bellamy can't help but flinch as she looks up and their eyes meet. He's never seen her look like this, so sickly, so wild and furious. Her bloodshot eyes burn with an unfamiliar gold. They're sunken into her face, the shadows on her cheekbones so prominent that at first he thinks she's sporting two black eyes. Her hair hangs in greasy, bloody strands, soot smudged on bare skin, and her hand glints in the sunlight - 

The hand that isn't wearing a glove is made of metal. Bellamy looks at the seam where Octavia's flesh and bone ends and feels sick to his stomach. The skin there is still red and inflamed. The wound and the subsequent addition of the prosthesis couldn't have happened more than a week ago. She should be recovering in a sterile medbay, not bleeding in a desert.

"What did she do to you?" Bellamy asks in a horrified whisper. "Octavia - " 

His sister's strange golden eyes snap to his.

"My name is Blodreina," she hisses. Bellamy shakes his head in disbelief.

"No, you're my sister, your name is Octavia," he says. He suddenly remembers he's still holding his blaster rifle at the ready, aimed at his _sister_ and drops it into the sand at his feet like it's on fire. 

"That was stupid," she says, her eyes following his discarded weapon. 

"That name is stupid," Bellamy retorts. " _Blodreina_? You were gone _a month_."

“A lot can change in a month,” she says hoarsely, raising her metal hand and wriggling her shiny new joints at him mockingly. Then her eyes narrow and her morbid amusement morphs to hard, steely anger. “Get out of my way. I have orders from my Master.”

“You have no master. We gave up everything to make sure you could grow up free,” Bellamy says, taking a step forward, closer to her. “You're my sister, and your name is Octavia, and I'm _not moving._ ”

“Then you'll die with the rest of them,” Octavia sneers, but even as she says it her eyes look a little more uncertain, her posture a little less confident.

“You won't hurt me,” Bellamy says desperately. If he says it enough, it might make it true.

"I've hurt you before," Octavia snaps back. "Sometimes I even meant it."

"Not like this," Bellamy says. He swallows hard and takes a chance. “You don't have a master. You don't have to take orders from anyone. What do _you_ want to do, Octavia?”

She doesn't answer. Bellamy’s ragged breathing is all he can hear. It’s deafening, even over the sounds of blaster fire out in the desert where his rebels are still trying to hold Mount Weather’s forces back and the high-pitched whistling melody of debris from the aerial battle burning up in atmosphere.

“I want to rebuild Arkadia,” Bellamy says haltingly when it becomes clear Octavia’s not about to talk yet. “I want to take you to the bakery where I used to get those pastries you love. I want to take you to the ocean – “

“  - I've _been_ to oceanic planets, you idiot,” she snaps, rolling her eyes, and she sounds so much like his little sister that it hurts. Bellamy has to believe that she’s still in there, somewhere, buried under a smoldering anger that he and his mother tried to suppress in vain.

He swallows hard.

“You haven't seen Arkadia's ocean,” he says softly. “Come _home_ , Octavia.”

He watches the gold bleed out of her eyes. She takes a tiny, hesitant step towards him, and Bellamy’s heart soars. He dares to believe that he can still save her.

Then a shadow blots out the sun.

It doesn’t move in from one horizon to another, an edge of it travelling across the desert to lay its chill over them. One moment the sun is beating down upon them and beads of sweat are gathering on the nape of Bellamy’s neck where his hair has grown long and unruly. And then the next, the entire sky has been cast in shade.

Bellamy looks up to the sky, then to Octavia’s upturned face, then to the sky, then back to Octavia. The biggest starcraft he’s ever seen or heard of has just come out of hyperspace and looms above the aerial battle, blocking out the sun. Its edges gleam, traced with sunlight, like the corona of an eclipse. And Octavia’s face as she looks up at it is the face of someone torn between impossible choices.

She is afraid, she is vindicated, she is beatific.

“My master has arrived,” she says hoarsely. Her eyes are gold again. His sister has been eclipsed.

“You don’t have to do this,” Bellamy pleads.

“Yes,” Octavia says as she unhooks a lightsaber off her belt and ignites a crimson blade. “I really do.”

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ZYGERRIA**

 

The Force exists beyond time or space. As Zygerria burns, a brother mourns his sister. Grief ripples outwards. On Arkadia, underneath a burning sky, three ghosts sit in a house. It’s dark inside, the shutters drawn tight, the candle burning to its stump. The daughter opens her eyes, unsettled by the aftertaste of an uneasy dream. The mother’s back is a angled line bent over a sewing machine that goes _click-clack-click_ into the early hours of the night. Her spine is like a stalk of grass, half-cracked and still trying to grow. Her eyes would be the colour of it, if she ever went outside anymore. She looks up as the daughter sits in the third chair at the table and there might be warmth in her face underneath the exhaustion. It's hard to tell.

“I had a dream,” the daughter says uncertainly. She calls it a dream because even behind the safety of the locked door and the drawn shutters, she is not allowed to say its real name, but they all know that dreams don’t embed kitchen knives into the walls. “Mama, am I broken?”

“No,” the brother says, at the same time as the mother says, “Yes.”

He glares at her over a fistful of ribbon. The mother’s face is serene, empty. The machine continues to _click-clack-click_ without pause.

There are two small girls sitting on the chair now, superimposed, like badly developed film. Both have dark hair, blue-green eyes, a stubborn slant to their jaw. One of them from the past, and one dreaming. One lost, and one found.

“ _Mama_ ,” they try asking again with a layered voice. “Am I too broken?”

“There is a crack in everything,” the mother says. “It’s how the light gets in.” The sewing machine stops punching holes through the fabric. She raises it up and shakes it to see how the fabric falls, to see if the mended rip stands out. “If things didn’t break,” the mother muses, “We wouldn’t have a job.”

The window shutters explode into splinters, and Madi opens her eyes to blinding light. The battle is still raging in three dimensions, more if you count Madi dipping her hand in and out of the Force like a needle pulling thread. Raven’s knuckles are bone-white through her golden skin on the joystick as she sends the starship diving beneath a barrage of oncoming fire. Madi still feels like she is dreaming, caught between realities. She reaches out, her eyes unfocused, to touch the burning sky.

“Clarke is going to lose,” Madi whispers, too faint for Raven to hear over the sound of panic on the radio.

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ZYGERRIA**

 

Only two other ships in Red Squadron have survived the flagship destroyer's arrival - Zeke, to Raven's immeasurable relief, and the two pirates who spend her entire approach bickering about which one of them should be in the pilot's seat right now.

“Now we know what they had us mining Arkadia for,” Zeke says bluntly. He doesn't have to specify what he's referring to. Raven murmurs in agreement as her clever eyes scan the underbelly of the destroyer for weaknesses and dangers they’ll have to avoid. She glances over. “Madi, are you okay?”

It takes the kid a moment to gather herself enough to respond, and Raven feels more guilt for bringing a Force-sensitive child into a battlefield of such magnitude.

“That ship is wrong,” Madi says eventually, forcing each word out with difficulty.

“Yeah, it is,” Raven agrees, examining it further as the two bickering pirates temporarily work out their differences and settle into formation on her other side. Sparks and forks of lightning flicker at the destroyer’s extremes, sending entire sections of the monstrous ship dark. She flicks her comms on. “That thing was almost too big for hyperspace travel. Look at it, it’s damaged itself getting here. We might still have a chance at stopping it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Madi says. “It’s a different kind of wrong. I think the evil Queen is on it.”

“The Sith Lady herself, come to gloat over the battle?” Raven asks, narrowing her eyes and glaring at it. “Not if I can help it.”

Inside, she feels cold and desperately hopes Madi can’t pick up on it. Is reading people’s minds an innate Jedi skill or is it taught? Do they learn it as children or once they’re formally trained? How much detail can they pick up? Raven’s always been much more blasé about Clarke’s abilities than most people, which is part of what drew Clarke to her in the first place – like, yeah, sure, Clarke can throw things through the air with her mind, but she doesn’t know how to use Mon Calamari utensils without stabbing herself or how to perform routine maintenance on a hyperdrive so as far as Raven’s concerned, they’re equals. Now she wishes, for the first time, that she’d asked a little more questions about her friend’s weird Force abilities.

All Raven knows for certain is that they’re completely unprepared for the monster commanding that massive star destroyer.

“Don’t worry,” Raven says with forced bravado. She flicks her comms on. “Red Two, Zeke, you guys run scans on that thing’s topside, tell me if you see any openings. I'm going to check its armaments. We’ll take her down somehow.”

"I'm not supposed to," Madi says urgently. "Raven, the Force is telling me to go to the ground."

"That's a battlefield, kid," Raven retorts.

"So’s this,” Madi says, sweeping her arm in a wide gesture at the devastation outside their windshield. Raven’s not sure she agrees. Sure, there are lasers flying everywhere and they have to constantly dodge debris from exploding ships both on their side and against them, but inside the cockpit, as long as Raven keeps flying, they’re _safe_. This is her element. “Down there is where I'm meant to be," Madi insists. "The Force says so."

"The Force can go float itself," Raven mutters, but she cranes her neck to look down at the ground battle. From up here, the two massive Mandalorian shuttles are the size of her thumb, utterly dwarfed by Queen Nia’s flagship star destroyer. The people fighting tooth and nail on the ground to get their fellow survivors to safety aren’t even visible.

Raven closes her eyes and wishes, for just a moment, that she wasn’t being asked to place her faith in something invisible and unquantifiable to her. Then she sighs.

“Fine. Pirates, you're on reconnaissance, look for weak spots,” she instructs. “When I get back, you better be able to tell me what kind of shields we’re up against.”

"My _name_ ," the pilot says pointedly. "Is _Murphy_."

"Technically - " his gunner interrupts quickly, and Raven tunes out the resulting disagreement.

“I hope you’ve got a plan, Raven,” Zeke says, before wheeling off and firing a well-placed shot at a stray Zygerrian drone.

“Yeah, me too,” Raven mutters to herself as she urges her ship into a deep nosedive towards the surface of the planet where towers of smoke mark the landscape of battle. Madi reaches out and squeezes her shoulder in comfort as their windshield blazes orange with the flames of re-entry. Raven wonders who she learned that from.

“It’ll be okay,” Madi reassures her as they near the ground battle. Raven takes the opportunity to fire a few shots at one of Mount Weather’s watchtowers as she does a low fly-by and smirks as it crumbles. “We need to land over there,” Madi says, pointing out a bare patch of sand.

Raven lowers the ship as far as she’s comfortable – her fighter is heavy enough to sink in what looks like soft, crumbly soil, and she won’t get the quick take-off she needs if she lands, but she can’t ask Madi to make the same drop she asked of Clarke.

"Whatever you're planning on doing, be safe,” Raven says grudgingly as she hovers the ship in place. “Clarke is going to kill me if you're hurt."

"Don’t worry. The Force is with me and I am one with the Force," Madi says, giving Raven's cheek a quick kiss before darting off the ship. Raven closes the hatch after her and then lifts off with a twist, making sure her jet stream is safely away from Madi’s trajectory. She’s nearly closed the distance to the aerial battle before she slaps half of her face with one palm.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to that,” she says to herself. “I really shouldn’t have. That was so stupid.”

Then she shakes it off, because what’s done is done and there’s still a war to be won. She shoots down a fighter that was trailing Zeke and drops back into formation, the pirates shifting into her six.

“Okay,” she says breathlessly, blinking away her doubts. “What do we know?”

“This ship has enough deflector shields to protect an entire army. We hammered away at one section to test it, but there was no noticeable degradation,” the gunner tells her - Emori, was it?

“The good news is, there are gaps in its shield coverage to allow its own weapons to fire,” Zeke says.

“And that’s good news?” Raven hisses, throwing her ship into a barrel roll to avoid a barrage of lasers that comes too close for comfort. “The only way through those shields is straight into enemy fire, and you want me to think that’s good news? That’s a little too optimistic, Zeke.”

“Not for the best pilot I know,” he says quietly, and the radio crackles with a little static from his breath, like he’s speaking too close to his microphone. "Not for you."

“Fine,” Raven says, exhaling. “Red Squadron, we focus on the front deflector shields. Let’s carve a path.”

 

 

 

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

Bellamy feels all the breath knocked out of his lungs at once as a pale blur knocks him out of the way a second before Octavia’s lightsaber meets his stomach. He and his rescuer roll in the sand and his skin burns where it meets tiny pieces of the wreckage from Octavia’s crash. He spits sand out of his mouth and feels it crunch between his teeth as he grits them against the pain and forces himself to sit up. _His blaster, where’s his blaster?_

He’s distracted from the search by a flash of golden hair. He’s never seen Clarke in Mandalorian armour before and it takes him a moment to realize what he’s seeing – the pale gleam of worn metal flashes in the sun as she plants herself between him and Octavia and shoves her palms forwards.

Octavia goes flying backwards, unprepared for the Force push. As Clarke jerks her wrists together, one of the support struts of the crumpled cockpit tears itself off the smoldering wreck with an ear-splitting groan and wraps around Octavia’s frame, pinning her to the ground. Octavia struggles against the trap, her arms pinned to her sides. The metal creaks under the weight of her anger.

Bellamy can only stare blankly at the girl he helped raise kicking and screaming and straining at the metal beam wrapped around her before Clarke is hurrying to him, her hands immediately finding his wounded shoulder. It’s easier to focus on her than it is to focus on the fact that his sister was ready to impale him.

“Thank the Force you’re safe, I couldn’t find you anywhere – “

He lets Clarke pull him behind the shelter of a nearby chunk of debris and reaches for her hair with his uninjured arm. She doesn’t feel real until he trails his fingers through the blonde strands - and then the overwhelming relief that courses through his body is so powerful that his knees would have given out if he weren't already seated in the sand.

“You came back?” he asks, still hardly daring to believe it.

“I'm back for good,” Clarke promises, nodding like she can’t stop. Her eyes water as he presses his palm to her cheek. She grabs his wrist and presses him closer. “I passed my Trials, the Order let me go – “

“I was afraid - I thought – “ Bellamy tries to say. His mind is still reeling, caught between three things that all seem vitally important to address _right now._ His sister, saving his people, _Clarke’s return_.

“I'm back. We're going to save our people,” Clarke murmurs, and her voice is just as shaky as his so he pulls her down and kisses her hard. She settles in his lap and kisses back just as eagerly, her teeth scraping at his lip, her breath ghosting along his. It’s a terrible angle for his neck and they’re in the middle of a battlefield and he doesn’t care. He could have died without kissing her again. He could have died with a red lightsaber through his torso. He needs this, needs her, needs her to know -

“I love you,” Bellamy says, breaking off the kiss just long enough to murmur it. Clarke barely lets him get it out, stretching forward to try to keep kissing him, but she pulls back in shock enough for him to continue. If he's really honest, he's wanted to say it since the doomed rebellion on Arkadia, since their eyes met from opposite ends of the camp on the last night before the occupation ended. He told her he needed her and he meant that too, but it's not quite the same. Bellamy swallows down the hard lump in his throat and reaches for her hands, winding his fingers through hers. “I know it hasn't been long and we're in a war and it's a bad time – “

Clarke starts to tear up, and then she laughs.

“This is _such_ a bad time,“ she says, and then she’s letting go of his hands to wind her fingers through his hair and hug him like she’s trying to crush them together. Her face is buried in the crook of his neck and he can feel the damp of her tears near his throat. “I love you too – "

“Say it again?” Bellamy asks, half-desperate, half-delighted.

“I love you, Bellamy, it's what I was going to tell you – “ Clarke begins, and they both stiffen as the screech of shifting metal gets unbearably loud. Clarke sits up in his lap, peering over the top of their makeshift shelter, and when her face goes dark and serious Bellamy knows Octavia’s nearly broken free of her trap. “You should go,” Clarke says quickly. “That trap won't hold her much longer.”

“Clarke – “ Bellamy says, reaching for her even as she clambers off of him and stands.

“Go, you don't want to watch this,” Clarke warns him, shaking her head desperately.

“How can I not?” Bellamy chokes out, his face twisted in anguish. She’s still his sister, his responsibility. Even though she was ready to kill him just moments ago.

“They need you,” Clarke says, pointing to the shuttles Monty and Harper are loading with his survivors. "Get Wells' people - get _our_ people to safety."

"Come with us," Bellamy says desperately. "We'll get everyone onboard, we'll retreat and make a plan - "

"There's not enough time," Clarke says. She points to the massive Azgedan flagship blotting out part of the sun. "You need to get out before that thing targets the shuttles. Your shields won't hold forever."

"Not without you," Bellamy says, grasping at the hard planes of her armour for something to hold onto.

"Bellamy stop it, _they need you_ ," she says, jabbing a frantic finger at his chest, where his heart is currently breaking in his chest. "Be their hope."

"You're my hope," Bellamy says brokenly. "Clarke... I can't lose both of you."

She hesitates before reaching out and squeezing his hand.

“I'll try to take her down alive,” she says quietly, and that’s all he can ask of her. He kisses her one last time and then lets her hand slip out of his. His skin feels cold wherever he loses contact with her.

 _May we meet again_ , he says to himself. He can't say _May the Force be with you_ because it makes him feel like he's choosing who he wants to walk away safely from this battle, and he doesn't - he can't - he doesn't want to make that choice.

The Force isn't real to him like it is to Clarke and Octavia. His domain lies with himself, with his voice and what he builds with his hands and the things he inspires in people. That's where he's needed. That's where he can still make a difference. He turns back just once at the edge of the field of wreckage. Clarke stands on the crest of a dune, her lightsaber ignited and held aloft. Her back is to him, her hair and the Mandalorian armour gleaming in the sun. He can't see her face but he can imagine it; the furrow between her brows as she frowns in concentration, the hard line of her mouth, the ironclad resolve in her eyes. 

Octavia struggles free of the metal Clarke bound her with. She crouches in the sand with her feet planted wide and her teeth bared. She looks feral. The red glow of her lightsaber, when it ignites, makes Bellamy flinch. 

The last time Bellamy saw a red lightsaber it killed one of the best people in the galaxy. Clarke is right. He doesn't want to watch this. He turns around and keeps marching towards the shuttles of freed Arkadian survivors, feeling all the while like Octavia's lightsaber succeeded in cutting him in half after all. There's a piece with him, being dragged over the sand, tears in his eyes as he tells himself not to look back. And there's a piece with Clarke, still raw and aching, begging for more time.

 

 

 

 

 

**ZYGERRIA**

 

Octavia fights like a cornered animal.

Clarke braces herself for a fighting style similar to Ontari’s, who is the only other example she’s really seen of the Dark Side, but it takes her only a few parries with Octavia to realize that doesn’t make sense.

She trained with a sword, a metal one, years before a Sith master put a lightsaber in her hand. It’s only been a few weeks since she went missing, and her inexperience with a lightsaber shows in every wild swing. Octavia is still used to a weapon that should be heavier and slower, and she doesn’t know how to incorporate the Force into her movement.

For Clarke, this is both a blessing and a curse. It means she has to drop back into a defensive Soresu stance to block the powerful and violent swings Octavia makes when she overcompensates for a weight that doesn’t exist anymore, but in her rage Octavia is easily unbalanced by pushes in the Force and doesn’t know how to judge distances.

She is, however, a very fast learner. Clarke grits her teeth and retreats backwards when she realizes Octavia is trying to mimic her, trying to mirror her tactics and dodges. Clarke can’t let this fight go on – she has more experience and more control, but Octavia is wild and driven by a raw and powerful sense of betrayal.

“You don’t have to fight me,” Clarke tries to reason, but Octavia shrieks and scorches a hole through the metal debris in her way.

“The Jedi ruined my life,” Octavia cries out. “I spent seventeen _years_ locked in my house because _your_ people would take me away if they knew what I can do. Can you give me back those seventeen years of my life?”

“Was killing your brother supposed to do that?” Clarke retorts. In her mind she sees Bellamy standing in front of his wayward sister, his hand outstretched, and knows that if she survives this fight that she will have nightmares about running for him and the heart-pounding terror that she wouldn’t be fast enough to knock him out of the way.

“That was my business,” Octavia snarls. “You had no right to interfere.”

“I got the right to interfere when you ran off to become a Sith,” Clarke says, dancing back on her tiptoes to stay just out of Octavia’s reach. “Look, Jasper says you gave yourself up to the Queen to save Arkadia. If that’s true, you don’t have to keep fighting for her now. We could win with you. Come back to the light.”

Of everything she says, only the last sentence makes Octavia visibly flinch. The tip of her red lightsaber wavers slightly.

“There’s no place for me there,” Octavia says. It’s both a question and a statement. Clarke hesitates to answer, unable to forget that she was ready to kill Bellamy, unable to stop the accusing faces of the Council from flashing across her mind. In that moment of silence Octavia’s face hardens even further. “That’s what I thought,” she says coldly, and then she throws her palm outward.

Octavia is stronger than her in sheer power: Clarke doesn’t stand a chance against a Force push fueled by her anger. Clarke feels herself flung backwards through the air. The back of her head slams against a nearby piece of debris and the impact sends dark spots dancing across her vision. Her lightsaber slips out of her grasp as she falls face-first into the sand.

 _Get up!_ her instincts scream. Clarke stirs weakly, trying to blink away the heavy ache that radiates through her skull. She pushes herself up on all fours and reaches out with her mind, trying to focus through the pain long enough to call her lightsaber back to her. The warning in the Force comes too late. Metal creaks and groans under the weight of Octavia’s command. Clarke throws herself over one shoulder and just barely manages to avoid having her upper body crushed by the chunk of metal that Octavia brings down upon her. Bone crunches as one of her legs is pinned underneath.

Clarke tries to scream and hears only a choked, gasping sound that sounds separate from herself. The Force is quiet and just out of reach. She tries to pull it to her anyway, tries to cushion herself from the agony before she looks down at the damage. She's trapped under debris from the thigh down, her leg twisted, sending spasms of pain up to her hip. Even if she gets the debris off she knows it won’t take any weight, knows she shouldn’t move it while the bones scrape against fragments of themselves. She doesn’t have time to heal it before Octavia’s lightsaber comes down. Clarke sobs with frustration, at getting so close, and not being strong enough to complete this horrible task the universe wants from her, and not having more time, never having the conversations she hoped she’d be able to have after this battle.

Octavia’s red lightsaber swings in a lazy circle as she approaches, taking her time putting one foot down in front of the other. The ash of burnt starships under her feet crackles, giving way easily under her weight, all resistance burnt away. And Clarke tries to come to terms with dying. Tries to take deep breaths and tell herself it’s okay that it ends here.

She doesn’t get long.

Madi’s feet skid along the ashen ground as she runs to them. Clarke’s heart climbs into her throat when she sees the girl – her responsibility, her _Padawan_ – dodging stray blaster bolts and clambering over wreckage strewn over the battlefield.

“Clarke!” she calls out in a high, ringing voice. “Octavia, wait!”

“Madi, no – “ Clarke screams. She gathers the Force in her and pushes outward violently, sending the debris keeping her leg trapped ricocheting off in all directions. The weight of it was keeping pressure on her wounds – keeping her alive. Its absence and the subsequent surge of blood in her twisted leg makes Clarke’s vision go dark and blurry at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters when Madi is running to her death. “Madi, please, run!”

She tries to stand up and immediately collapses. The pain in her leg and the sensation of bone makes her stomach convulse – she swallows down the urge to retch and drags herself forward instead.

Octavia’s golden eyes are wary and confused by the arrival of a child on the battlefield.

“Please don’t hurt her. She's just a child, please, not Madi, not her,” Clarke begs, her voice barely above a whisper. Octavia’s gaze darts between them, unreadable. 

She can’t look. She can’t watch another person she loves die on a red lightsaber. Clarke screws her eyes shut and sobs helplessly, her hands curled into fists that shake against the sand. The Dark Side whispers at the edges of her mind, beckoning. Promising her power, if only she grabs onto that sense of furious injustice, that burning anger. Clarke's nails dig bloody crescents into her palms. The pain in her leg becomes something razor-sharp, pulsing with her heartbeat. 

“You’re Octavia, right?” Madi asks breathlessly. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Clarke says your family hid you from the Jedi. Mine too. We had a hatch in the floor, under a rug. I hid there every time the Jedi came, until my parents died.”

Clarke's concentration falters, and the Dark Side drops out of reach just as she was grasping at it. She opens her eyes in disbelief. Madi stands between her and Octavia, her back to Clarke, her feet planted firmly. And Octavia, watching in confusion, lowers her lightsaber a fraction of an inch.

“I was afraid too,” Madi says. “Other people are loud, and painful, and they make me feel alone most of the time. But look – look what I found,” she says as she reaches into her pocket. Clarke draws in a sharp breath as Madi pulls out her kyber crystal, the one Clarke let her take from the cave on Ilum. She can’t speak or tear her eyes away.

Madi holds her hands out, palms up, and the crystal floats upwards, held by the Force between her hands. It glows, bright and white-blue, like sunlight melting through ice. The pain shooting up Clarke’s leg fades to something she can breathe through.

“Look what I can do,” Madi says, her voice pleased and gentle. Octavia’s arm is shaking under the weight of holding her lightsaber out, but Madi keeps talking. Clarke searches her in the Force and finds no fear, not even a trace of it. Madi’s certainty that Octavia will listen to her is so strong it drowns everything else out. “Some of the Jedi told me it was too late for me to grow up peacefully and one day I’d go Dark, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. But then Clarke taught me this.”

And from the ashes at her feet, the first green shoots push their way out of the dusty gray ground. Snowdrops grow taller until their buds unfurl and the weight of their blossoms makes them hang like rows of white lanterns lighting the way to Madi’s feet. Green ferns uncoil and tremble in the wind. Clovers take root and grow outwards, blanketing the sand all around her in dark green leaves until Madi could take two steps in any direction and still not step on any gray. Plants that have never grown in the desert are suddenly flourishing for her.  _Force_ , Clarke was ready to give in to the Dark and instead - 

Tears prick at the corners of Clarke’s eyes, unrelated to her fear for Madi or the pain still wracking her leg. She swallows down the lump in her throat and dares, for a moment, to hope.

“You could do this too,” Madi says gently.

The red lightsaber falls out of Octavia’s suddenly-limp hand and shuts off as it hits the ground, the impact kicking up a small cloud of sand. A heartbeat later, Octavia follows it down as her knees give out. She rests her hands on her thighs and starts to cry, her tears clearing damp trails through the warpaint rubbed around her eyes.

The glow of Madi’s kyber crystal fades, and with it, so does the adrenaline that was keeping Clarke keyed up. She closes her eyes and lets her upper body slump to the ground, suddenly too exhausted to keep herself propped up and paying attention.

“Hurry!” Madi says urgently, and Clarke stirs weakly as she feels small hands on her face, moving to squeeze her hands, then resting on her leg, above the injury. “Bellamy’s on his way, but we need to slow the bleeding.”

Movement. The crunch of sand by her head. The smell of dried blood. Clarke opens her eyes to find Octavia standing over her. Her shoulders are hunched and tense. Her face is afraid and lost.

“Healing is a Jedi trick,” Octavia says hoarsely. “I – I don’t know how.”

“It’s okay,” Madi says. The hands on Clarke’s thigh press down harder, and she whimpers at the pressure as the increased pain drives out all other coherent thoughts. “You just have to help me. We’ll do it together.”

“Madi - ” Clarke gasps. Her vision is dark at the edges and slipping out of reach. She stares up at the sky and sees a thousand glittering pinpricks of fire, like a handful of glitter thrown up by a child. An empire crumbles into atmosphere in real time. _Can you wish on this kind of shooting star?_ The Force holds its breath. Clarke’s eyes flicker shut and she slips sideways into dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

**IN ORBIT AROUND ZYGERRIA**

 

Rapid bursts of lasers streak just over the windshield of Raven’s cockpit as she twists around in mid-air to stay out of reach of the half a dozen Zygerrian drones on her tail.

Their neat formation is ancient history now. They strayed too close to a barrage of lasers fired from the massive turrets of the Azgedan flagship and Raven doesn't know what happened to the pirates in the chaos. She's not sure if Zeke is still alive either. They got split up by a debris field his bomber was too large to navigate and since then Raven has heard only static from his comms. She's too numb, too terrified to mourn yet.

"How many decoys do we have left, ALI?" Raven asks. The number her droid whistles back isn't nearly as high as Raven would like, but she's planning on ending this soon.

"On the count of 3, cut power to all our rear thrusters, flush coolant out every vent, and fire a decoy along our trajectory," Raven orders. "One... two... _three_."

Her harness digs painfully into her chest as the starship comes to an abrupt stop. Her ears ring with the silence after the engine dies. The decoy shoots out, following the path her ship would have naturally taken forward. Raven's knuckles are white against her controls as she hunches down in her seat and watches the swarm of drones pass her by overhead. They descend upon the decoy all at once, like the galaxy's stupidest loth-wolf pack.

The decoy engulfs them all in a bloom of fire.

"Take that, you heat-seeking bastards," Raven says, smirking to herself and restarting her engines.

She never sees the ship that fires at her. She only feels the aftermath of it - the violent tailspin it sends her into, the sparks that fly from her hull as alarms blare in her cockpit.

Raven holds her breath until she gets _Spacewalker_ to level out, since screaming seems like a luxury. She exhales, feeling shaky and overwhelmed, as she hides her ship in the shadow of a destroyed Zygerrian cruiser that is slowly sinking as its orbit around the planet degrades. Raven presses both hands to her face and allows herself a flurry of curses.

"Okay, I'm fine," she says, trying to convince herself. "We're going to finish this. Those shields are as damaged as they're going to get. We have an ion torpedo and we are going to ruin someone's day."

ALI-E2 whistles supportively, and then proceeds to helpful inform her of the extensive damage to her rear hull and the fire that's feeding on leakages from her ruptured fuel and oxygen tanks.

"That's fine," Raven says through the sinking feeling in her stomach. "We'll move fast."

She punches the throttle and emerges from behind the shadow of the Zygerrian wreck. The massive Azgedan flagship looms overhead, and Raven glowers at it.

ALI-E2 beeps a shrill warning.

“What?” Raven says in a panic, flicking several switches to adjust the weapons display on her dashboard. Flashing red text in big, block letters confirms her astromech’s dire warnings – the glancing shot to her ship has damaged her weapons targeting. “Come on ALI, give me something,” she growls. “Divert power from life systems if you have to.”

ALI-E2 responds with what sounds like a stern reprimand. An additional flurry of red warnings pops up on her screens. Raven minimizes them all.

“Don’t care about regulations,” she retorts. “I, Raven Reyes, am of sound mind and body to make this decision, and I am fully informed of its consequences.”

ALI-E2 whirrs loudly. The astromech has some time to process this demand as Raven flips her ship backwards and shoots down a droid that’s lurking far too close for comfort. The response, when she gets it, is far from optimistic.

"Life support won't be enough to power weapons targeting?" Raven asks in dismay. She grimaces and scans her dashboard for options. The flashing icon informing her that she's still trailing fire from her damaged hull seems promising. "What if you divert the fire suppression systems too? Hmm, and engine coolant."

ALI-E2 twitters in disapproval.

"I know it's dangerous," Raven snaps. "But I only need the ship to hold together for one shot. I can end this in one shot, ALI, just give me something to work with."

Updated projections flash on her dashboard and Raven glances at them with a falling heart. She swallows heavily.

"Still not enough power, huh? Guess that's my fault for getting too ambitious with my design," she says, forcing a smile even though there's no one to see her in the cockpit. Warnings and alarms all demand her attention at once. Raven checks them long enough to determine that the fire suppression systems and rerouted power coils are barely holding.  Flames lick at the edges of her dashboard, fueled by the slow leak of her spare oxygen and fuel tanks. It's getting hot and suffocating in the cockpit. _Spacewalker_ isn't going to last much longer. She laughs without humour. "Looks like Madi was safer on the ground, after all."

Raven feels a pang of pain and worry, and then - _The Force is with me_ , Madi's voice says in her ear. A wave of calm and clarity washes over Raven. She exhales, and knows what to do.

“ALI, give me manual control of weapons," she says. Her hands find familiar grooves on her joystick. ALI-E2 beeps, a little dubious, and Raven feels a little extra resistance to her controls as the ship relinquishes its rule to her. "It's okay," Raven promises, and she almost believes it.

It might be destiny, or the Force, or the sheer determination of the Arkadian alliance fighting back with everything it's got, but the path to the flagship is almost clear. Raven rises up to meet it in the void above Zygerria. The bridge of the flagship alone is twice the size of her ship. But Raven was born on Tatooine and she knows, better than most, what it's like to be small and insignificant in the face of an overwhelming threat. She has survived sandstorms and womp-rats and the sun baking a desert over her head. She's the youngest podrace champion in 52 years.

“Don't let me down,” Raven chokes out, and she pulls the trigger. Her ship shakes with the force of firing the torpedo. She hopes with every fiber of her being that the deflector shields are weakened enough, that her aim is true, that she’s right and the massive destroyer won’t be able to get out of the way in time. Alone in her starfighter, she has no way of knowing that she’s not the only one hoping for the same thing. Hundreds of others, scattered through their own starships or standing on the surface of Zygerria down below, look up at the sky and pray for her to land the hit.

She's done her best. She's given more than anyone would have demanded of her. If there's any sense of celestial justice in the galaxy, it can take it from here. Raven watches the torpedo soar through the void between them as though in slow motion. Later, she will think to herself that she couldn't have been close enough to see such details. She will conclude that the memory is only a fabrication of an exhausted mind. But then and there, in the moment before the torpedo strikes, Raven could swear she sees a figure in ornate robes standing at the very front of the bridge. She could swear she sees a pair of narrowed, yellow eyes widen in shock and alarm just before the torpedo shatters the destroyer's windshield and detonates in the heart of the bridge.

The explosion erupts with a flash of blinding white light. Raven doesn't get her hands up in time to shield her eyes and has the dizzying sensation she's staring straight into the core of a star, before the shockwave reaches her and sends the  _Spacewalker_ spiraling through the air. After the initial flash of light she can see nothing but the silhouette of her outstretched hands, raised up too late. Everything else is a wavering black, her vision burned away. She has only her other senses to explain the next few minutes.

Without any contradictory motion, the ship continues to gently spin head-over-heels in the trajectory set by the shockwave from the detonation. Raven's stomach threatens to mutiny after a few complete revolutions.

"ALI," she calls out. "You there? Can you vent our dorsal ports and stop this spinning?

Silence. Raven strains to hear anything over than the high-pitched ringing in her ears. If there's any residual machine hum, she can't hear it.

"ALI? You okay?"

She reaches out blindly and flicks a switch on the dashboard, then jerks the joystick around. No response. The explosion must have fried all her circuits. _Spacewalker_ is dead in the sky. And if her ship's circuits are fried then...

Raven tries to kick with her prosthetic leg. It remains a dead weight.

"Shit," she says, running a hand through her sweaty hair. It might be just her imagination, but it feels like the spinning is slowing down. If her oxygen tanks are still leaking that could be canceling out some of her momentum, but if her oxygen tanks are still leaking then her ship is probably still on fire, and life support will fail sooner rather than later. "Fuck," Raven says, blinking furiously. Her vision is slowly and painstakingly returning, but her view of her darkened dashboard is still blurry. She jabs at what she thinks is the reset for her comms anyway. "Hey, is anyone out there? Can you hear me? Is it over?"

Silence. Not even a crackle on the radio to tell her that she's sent out a transmission even if no one was left to hear it.

Raven leans forward and rests her head on her dashboard. Her chest aches where her seat harness kept her from flying out of her seat in the first shockwave. The knee of her unresponsive prosthetic feels like a phantom. Her head is heavy and sore and fuzzy. She wants to go home. She wants to know if the war's been won. She needs to take shallower breaths if she wants her air to last.

It's hard to say how long she drifts. She blinks awake, dazed and still half-blind, when  _Spacewalker_ jerks in a tractor beam. Her head hurts even worse and her breaths are just weak, unsatisfactory gasps. Vibrations ring through the hull as her damaged ship comes to a rest on a solid surface. She hears muffled yelling.

The hatch of her cockpit opens with a sharp hiss of air and the acrid smell of an electrical fire. Raven jerks her head up and squints at the bright light that washes in. The yelling is louder and clearer now -

"Get those flames put out! Is the crew alive?"

A lithe figure sits perched on the edge of the hatch.

"Captain's alive!" she hollers over her shoulder. The voice is familiar. To Raven, she says, "That was some _sick_ flying. Come on, you gotta get out and tell me all about it."

"My leg's fried," Raven says in a daze, thumping her fist against her prosthetic so the strange woman sitting on her ship can hear the ring of metal.

"I hate it when that happens," the woman says sympathetically, wiggling a large metal hand at her. Raven's vision is still a little too blurry to let her see much detail, but she has the vague impression that the woman's prosthetic more closely resembles a Chiss army knife than the limb it's replaced. The woman snickers, and Raven finally places her as the gunner. Emori. "It's okay, I'll give you a _hand_."

Raven grabs onto the outstretched hand and tries to haul herself up but her head spins and she slumps back in her seat feeling heavy and exhausted.

"Murphy!" Emori yells over her shoulder. "Get me an oxygen mask!"

Raven hears a muffled "Get it yourself!" but a moment later the Emori's hand is reaching down and pressing a mask to Raven's face. She's never tasted anything so sweet. She breathes deeply, and the ache in her head starts to ease after only a few inhalations.

"That's good," Emori encourages. "I'd tell you to take it easy, but seriously, your ship is on fire. Can you climb out yet?"

"Can try," Raven says with a grunt. The spike of adrenaline she gets at the news that her beloved ship is still on fire might also help. Emori hauls her out and they shimmy down the side of the hull, landing in a pile together on the floor of what Raven now realizes is a hanger. The expanse of space stretches out beyond the energy shield keeping a safe atmosphere in the hangar. There's a massive clump of smoldering debris in the distance that must be the flagship. It's too big to be anything else, but Raven still feels dizzy when she sees it, the magnitude of destruction she wrought. She looks away from it as grasping hands help her upright and coax her into limping a safe distance from her ship.

"My droid - " Raven says, twisting around for a better look at the wreckage of her ship. ALI-E2 sits in her port, gone cold and dark as flames burn on the rear half of the craft.

"We'll get it out," a stranger reassures Raven, and she allows herself to be led away after seeing the hangar crews with air canons working to put out the flames.

Emori sits down next to her and presses the oxygen kit back into her hands. Raven gratefully places it back on her face and sucks in more air.

"Can I take a look at your leg? I'm not a very good mechanic yet, but I might be able to shock some power back into it," the woman says. 

"Be my guest," Raven mumbles, still overwhelmed. She tries to crack a smile of gratitude as Emori flicks a screwdriver extension out of her thumb. "I'm a really big fan of your hand," she says. "I wouldn't mind teaching you some tricks later, if I can take a look at your blueprints."

"Sounds great to me," Emori says with a grin as she pries off the control panel of Raven's leg and sets about poking at the wires there.

Raven lies back and focuses on nothing but breathing from the oxygen kit until the fuzzy confusion of her head fades. She almost wants to laugh in sheer disbelief. She's alive. She fired the last shot. They _won_. And oh, she is  _so tired._

 

 

 

 

  

**ZYGERRIA**

 

Bellamy begs the universe for mercy as strangers grab at Clarke's body. The words escape his mind as soon as they leave his mouth. He has no idea if he sounds coherent at all, no idea if the Force is listening. Letting her go is the hardest thing he's ever done. His arms feel no lighter with her weight taken away. He looks down at his hands, his front, drenched in her blood, and goes dizzy with the scope of it. 

The girl hovers at his side as the shuttle takes off. She's like a ghost, achingly familiar. Clarke loves her already, so Bellamy does too, but he doesn't know what to tell her. He barely knows how to comfort himself. She reaches for his hand, slick with blood as it is, and her gaze flickers between his eyes as she searches for - _something._

"You're her Padawan?" Bellamy rasps.

"I think so," the girl whispers. 

"Then you're my family too," Bellamy says. He squeezes her hand, and after a moment of hesitation, she lets go only to throw her arms around Bellamy's neck, heedless of the blood. Her entire weight knocks him back but he hugs her back just as fiercely and presses his cheek to her dark hair. "It's okay," he whispers. "It'll be okay. It's over. We're going home now."

The mismatched starships of the fleet vanish into hyperspace one by one in quick succession, leaving behind empty air and the haunting silence of an abandoned battlefield. The burning ships sink slowly through the sky as their orbits collapse under the pull of gravity. The smaller pieces of scattered debris disintegrate before they fall far, unable to withstand re-entry; the larger ones blaze white-hot trails before reaching their final resting spots in Zygerria’s deserts. Sands crackle and solidify into glass on impact. Mount Weather burns in their wake.

And in the mathematically unlikely labyrinth of hyperspace, the survivors hold hands and begin to hope.

Monty almost falls out of the captain's seat as Miller enters the bridge with his father in tow. They shake hands, carefully, awkward, not yet aware of the spaces their family will grow into. Harper, piloting the other shuttle, reaches up to touch one of the braids in her hair and feels something release in her, like a knot untangled, like a dammed river finally allowed to flow. It's over, finally. Jasper finds a quiet hallway and sinks down a wall, his face in his hands. Maya finds him, eventually, and sits nearby. Zeke checks every hangar until he finds the rest of the red squadron. Raven and Emori are already fully engrossed in the inner workings of her prosthetic hand. Murphy gives Zeke a half-hearted shrug and holds out a pouch of dried rations pilfered from a nearby crate. Prince Roan, soon to be king, turns to Charmaine Diyoza and asks her if she'd like to command his armies when he returns to claim Azgeda.

And in the medbay, safely nestled into the heart of the shuttle, careful hands attach an oxygen mask to Clarke's face and lower her into a vat of bacta. Bellamy and Madi watch her unconscious face through the glass as the celebrations begin to ripple throughout the fleet. 

They’re still breathing, after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you to know that after Cage's death, Zygerria turned over a new leaf and became the galaxy's leading experts on treating concussions after Jasper and Bellamy swept through Mount Weather and knocked everyone unconscious. 
> 
> Queen Nia's flagship was inspired by [Snoke's](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Supremacy) \- you know, the absurdly large one in The Last Jedi that's totally not commentary on overcompensation. For Octavia I was picturing like... probably a [TIE interceptor](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/TIE/IN_interceptor). Gotta have a cockpit she could punch her way out of. Also, I want you guys to know that I came _so very close_ to having her just... weld her new lightsaber to the end of her sword. Sword on one end, lightsaber on the other. Edgy is thy middle name, Octavia Blake.  
> [Bacta](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Bacta) is magical healing slime that I think I forgot to define in earlier chapters.
> 
> Octavia's redemption or lack thereof could have gone either way. I asked Jess if she had strong opinions about it, and she was like "I trust you" which is VERY SWEET but meant I had to make decisions. I hope people feel like this end was true to both her character and the theme of Star Wars.
> 
> This chapter was so delayed because I couldn't decide if I should go with my original vision for it - narrowing the focus back down to Clarke and Bellamy - or if I should embrace the minor characters. I ended up compromising and the result isn't perfect, but 2019 is the year of kicking perfectionism out of my life. Thanks for reading this far. This was the most fun I've had engaging with the comment section, ever, you guys were so great. I finally finished editing this and started bawling because holy shit, this au has basically taken over my life since November 2018. Can't believe we're nearly done. I'll see you for the epilogue, and then it's really over. Well - I love seeing other writers talk about their writing process, so if you're a nerd like me and you're curious about how this fic came into its final form, I think I'll be posting a few scrapped scenes on [my tumblr](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/) in the ['luminousbeings' tag](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/tagged/luminousbeings). 
> 
> Thank you _so much_ for reading. I love everyone in this chili.


	18. epilogue / but at least the war is over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** some implied suicidal idealization in the fourth scene, a short discussion about past suicidal thoughts that ends optimistically.
> 
> I've done my best to deliver on the happy part of that _angst with a happy ending_ tag.

 

**HYPERSPACE, ENROUTE TO ARKADIA**

 

Roughly two hours ago, Bellamy stopped worrying about Clarke long enough to worry about Madi instead. He gently persuaded her to try to get some sleep on one of the narrow cots in the back of the medbay, and Madi conceded not because she was particularly tired - because her thoughts and pulse and connection to the Force have been galloping since she planted herself in Octavia's way and show no sign of slowing down - but because the thing that seems to comfort adults, more than anything in the galaxy, is believing that they have a situation under control. So Madi let Bellamy shepherd her to one of the spare cots and smiled when he shrugged off his armoured coat to lay on her as a blanket, and has not slept a wink since he left her to go back to sitting in front of Clarke's bacta tank with his head in his hands.

Madi watches Bellamy's vigil with morbid fascination and the sort of longing that would usually have had Master Gaia swooping out of a dark corner by now, urging her to come and meditate on the memories she couldn't let go of, as if enough mindfulness could make her forget or _want_ to forget the sound of her father's booming laughter, the way her mother's hair tickled her nose when she rocked Madi to bed, or the sweet smell of fruit ripening on the branches that shaded their village. The feeling of freedom that comes from being away from Force-sensitives is nearly addictive. Madi's senses alert her to shapes moving through the shuttle around them, like stars, radiating hope and relief and pain, all around the fixed point of Bellamy's certainty that Clarke will come out of the bacta tank whole and healthy. Madi lingers on certain memories, like pressing her thumbs into bruises, and no one can tell her not to. This feeling has a name, if she's willing to name it.

She feels a spark of curiousity from Bellamy and closes her eyes seconds before he turns his head to look at her. Madi takes deep, slow breaths as he stands up with a soft groan as he stretches muscles stiff from sitting for so long. His footsteps approach and Madi wonders if her face looks blank enough, if he can hear her heart speeding up or her mind whirring. She's curled up on her side, knees tucked into her chest like she normally sleeps so that Bellamy's coat covers all but her toes peeking out from underneath the hem. This puts her face close to the patch of armour on his shoulder that got shot. Every deep and slow inhalation she takes brings with it the taste of ozone from the carbon-scorched dent in the armour. She's glad whoever shot at him has such bad aim. Bellamy is right in front of her now, glowing warmly in the Force.

"You awake?" Bellamy asks her, his voice barely audible over the low drone of the shuttle's hyperdrive. Master Gaia wouldn't have to ask. She'd already be launching into a lecture about learning how to relax and control herself. Madi debates opening her eyes, but by the time she's decided she'd probably like to, too much time has passed. "Guess not," Bellamy says to himself. "Don't blame you. It's been an exhausting day."

Madi has to force herself to keep breathing consistently as Bellamy brushes a stray braid out of her face so gently she almost wants to cry. She needs Clarke to wake up and be okay. She _needs_ it, because this feeling has a name and that name is family. She's standing on the edge of it, testing the temperature with her toes, a fist raised to knock if only they'll open the door. Madi never belonged to the Order the way they wanted her to. She thinks she might belong with Clarke, and if the hoarse, desperate way Bellamy said Clarke's name when he saw her body bleeding out into the sand is any indication then Clarke probably belongs with him, and maybe that means Madi can belong too somewhere in their orbit.

Madi's foot itches, ruining her concentration. She aches to stretch it out and has to force herself to wait as Bellamy gives an exhausted sigh and walks away from her cot. She opens one eye carefully as silence reigns over the medbay.

Bellamy is standing in front of the bacta tank, Clarke's submerged form looking hazy and eerie in the thick liquid. Her hair floats around her head, an otherworldly golden cloud. Her face is obscured by the breathing mask but Madi can feel her in the Force - peaceful, slow-moving, like a massive tree's boughs faintly rustling in a strong wind. Clarke is dreaming while the bacta races to repair the damage done to her body. Part of Madi wants to pretend to wake up and tell Bellamy this so he doesn't look so utterly broken in front of her tank, and part of her thinks that would make her like the Order, telling people how to feel when they're not ready to feel that way. So she stays quiet as Bellamy presses his palm to the glass of Clarke's bacta tank.

"Clarke," Bellamy says. "If you can hear me..." He sighs heavily. "We'll be arriving at Arkadia soon, and you should be awake to see it. We've been fighting for so long that I don't really know how to do this part. I didn't... I was afraid to hope. But I think it's finally over. We won, and we get to go home now, and rebuild." Bellamy's voice is so quiet now that Madi can barely hear him. "...and I'm hoping you'll stay and do that with me."

He bows his head and leans his forehead against the curved glass of the bacta tank. Madi watches his breath fog the glass as he breathes in and out, eyes scrunched shut in.

She closes her own eyes, not because she needs to, but because it's easier, sometimes, to reach for the Force when everything else is blocked out. Clarke's presence flickers faintly as Madi reaches for her, as though acknowledging her, maybe recognizing her. She feels familiar to Madi already, strong-willed and burning with an even mixture of love and fury. Madi lingers for a moment. Then, as clearly as if she'd shouted across the medbay, Madi speaks.

_Clarke. WAKE UP._

A hand suddenly slams against the interior of the bacta tank with a muffled, echoing _thump_. Bellamy startles, but only for a fraction of a second before his face breaks into a disbelieving smile. Clarke slams her fist against the glass again and kicks against the restraints keeping her suspended inside the tank. A medbot, probably roused from its charging station by the spike in her activity, beeps shrill warnings as it rolls forward.

Madi slips out from underneath Bellamy's jacket, no longer pretending to be asleep. The rush of cold, recycled air hits her skin where his jacket was warm and soothing but Madi stands her ground in front of the medbot even as goosebumps dot her bare skin.

"She wants out," she insists to the frantic droid. "She's fine, I can feel her. Stop freaking out."

Behind her, Bellamy has already wrestled the lid off the tank and is hauling Clarke out. There's a winch right next to him that would lift her out by the restraints and make the whole process easier but he seems to be ignoring it entirely in favour of wrapping her into his arms and lifting. Once she's out they sink to the floor in a tangle of limbs and a growing puddle of bacta. All the while Bellamy is speaking soothingly to her - _I got you, you're safe Clarke, you're okay, I got you_ \- a broken record patched together with the singular overwhelming goal of comfort. It distracts Madi long enough for the medbot she's trying to ward off to dodge around her, wheels squeaking against the spilled bacta as it rushes to adjust the sensors clamped to Clarke's fingers. Bellamy and Clarke both ignore its reprimands as Bellamy removes her breathing mask with shaking fingers and Clarke takes deep, gasping breaths. Madi watches her hands clutch at Bellamy's collar and wonders if there's room for her in their reunion.

"You're okay, I promise," Bellamy murmurs, using his sleeve to wipe the remnants of bacta slime away from her face. He laughs shakily and presses a hand to the side of her face. "Hey, princess," he says softly.

"Mandalore's not a monarchy," Clarke says hoarsely, and it has the playful echoes of a long-standing argument between them. Madi grins at the sight as Bellamy huffs a laugh and strokes his thumb through the sticky remains of bacta on her cheek.

Clarke smiles weakly back, her eyes still dazed and unfocused but her happy expression gives way to terror only seconds later.

"Madi!" Clarke cries out, trying to sit up before Bellamy's arms wrest her back to the ground.

"I'm here!" Madi says quickly, leaning into Clarke's field of vision. "I'm safe, please don't move your leg!"

Clarke all but collapses back into Bellamy's lap as the adrenaline leaves her body. Madi feels a little guilty about how Clarke's desperation strikes a chord in her. It's not that Madi likes seeing her in pain, it's just been so long since someone worried for her instead of about her. That must mean she's wanted.

"Oh, Force," Clarke says weakly, rubbing at her leg, where a fresh, reddened scar has replaced the gash that threatened her life just hours ago. "Now I understand why Anya would yell at me every time I did something stupid."

"You have no room to talk about stupid things right now," Bellamy says to Clarke. "You could have died. Please - " he breaks off, biting his lip.

"She's not a Jedi anymore," Madi tells him helpfully. "So you can tell her that you love her."

Bellamy and Clarke's faces both show such identical expressions of shock that Madi almost feels bad for pointing out how embarrassingly obvious they're being.

"I sort of told her already," Bellamy says. "On the battlefield."

"You could tell me again," Clarke says softly.

Bellamy opens and closes his mouth several times, his head swinging from Madi to Clarke. His fingers tighten on Clarke's shoulder and arm, where he's keeping her partially propped up in his lap, and then, to Madi, with a breathless laugh, he says: "Can you give us a moment?"

Madi closes her eyes just as Bellamy cups the back of Clarke's neck and kisses her like he's in a hurry. Madi also clamps her hands over their ears in case he has a speech he wants to give - in her stories, Clarke said he gave _a lot_ of speeches - but Madi's never been very good at blocking the world out. She feels Clarke's happiness blooming in the Force, a fire finally given oxygen, and it reverberates throughout the medbay and beyond, unrestrained by metal walls or mortal bodies. Madi feels her own mouth twisting up at the corners in a wide smile that cracks her cheeks, but that's not Clarke's doing. That's just her.

When she feels like enough time has passed that Bellamy should have really gotten himself together by now, she opens her eyes and lets her hands drop from her ears. Clarke is still looking up at Bellamy adoringly, her face soft and tender underneath the bruises and scrapes the bacta has almost erased. Bellamy's thumb rubs against her jaw absently.

"She's right," he says gently.

"I know," Clarke says. And then, a flicker of worry passing over her - "Is it really over? Did you save all the Arkadians?"

"We did. Raven killed the Sith Master. It's really over, Clarke."

Madi was there for the end, as the shuttles took off from Zygerria and left clouds of stirred dust behind them, as the last of the starfighters crowded in close to join the hyperspace jump, but she couldn't pay attention to much of the chaos with Clarke's blood all over her arms. Hearing the extra confirmation from Bellamy, now, makes her exhale roughly, and Clarke immediately stretches out her hand, beckoning Madi closer. She tucks herself into Clarke's other side, facing Bellamy, and ducks her head to hide her breathless delight when Clarke kisses her temple fleetingly.

"It's over," Clarke breathes, exhausted and heartbroken and grateful all at once. Her hand strokes Madi's tangled hair with a slight tremor.

"Can we go home?" Madi asks very quietly. She is half-afraid to be heard.

Bellamy's eyes are suddenly uncertain, guarded.

"By home, do you mean Coruscant...?" Bellamy trails off.

"Coruscant sucks," Madi tells him, and is gratified to see the flicker of a smirk he immediately tries to suppress. _Good_. If he didn't like Coruscant either, she likes him more. But then, she already likes him a lot from Clarke's stories.

Clarke's hand rests on and squeezes Madi's shoulder.

"We'd like to come to Arkadia," Clarke says. A beat, then - "If you'll have us," she adds. Madi can feel her anticipation in the Force, can feel traces of fear, like she still thinks, after all this, that Bellamy would say _no_ , and wonders at it.

"Yes," Bellamy says with a shaky laugh, his voice warm and relieved. " _Please._ It'll be a lot of work, at first. There's so much to rebuild. Monty says the Eligius operations destabilized the planet's core, so the climate's a disaster and there's radioactive storms on half the planet - "

"That's where I want to be," Clarke says without hesitation.

"You want to be in radiation central?"

"Yes."

Clarke's unflinching determination makes Madi choke back giggles, and a moment later they're all laughing, giddy with new possibility. Madi's smile hasn't faded before the pilot comes on the intercom and says, in a voice that sounds as warm and relieved and emotional as theirs, that they're about to come out of hyperspace. That they're _home_.

"Help me to the window," Clarke says suddenly, so Madi scrambles to her feet and spots her while Bellamy stands up with her in his arms and gently deposits her upright. They hobble to the window, all three of them, Clarke's arms slung over Madi and Bellamy's shoulders, her side warm and whole against Madi's, only a mild limp betraying the injury she nearly bled out from just hours ago on the battlefield.

Outside the shuttle, thousands and thousands of stars streak past. It doesn't rain on Coruscant often, but it did on Madi's old planet, and she used to lay in the grass behind her house and watch the raindrops race towards her, converging on her gaze, feeling like it made her the center of the universe, feeling like it quieted the sense of the Force. That's what hyperspace reminds Madi of, though they'd get a better angle from the bridge. They get Clarke to lean against the window, breathing a little heavily despite their support, just as the shuttle slows and the stars streaking past into the void settle into single twinkling points. _The rain has stopped_ , Madi thinks wistfully. _Maybe the sun will come out._

Oh, but nothing could have prepared her for her first sight of Arkadia. They enter realspace and there it is before them, ringed with gold, wreathed by whirling storms. Its sun is just reaching over the horizon, the light scattered across space in a sunburst nearly painful to look at, but Madi drinks it in as long as she can before dark spots dance across her vision.

"That's home?" Madi asks, craning her neck upwards. Bellamy meets her gaze and smiles.

"It's home," he promises.

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT, several weeks later**

 

It would take more than nightfall to quiet Coruscant, but even so Bellamy is surprised by the volume of traffic he sees beyond his window. Dawn is coming, as slow and inevitable as always, and he stands unmoving at the edge of the curtain for a very long time, watching the sky turn from black to the dark blue of Arkadia's emblem to ever-softer shades of purple and gold. Against that lightening backdrop the chaotic crosshatch of airspeeders grows bolder. The neon glow and flashing lights of Coruscant's nightlife shine as bright as ever but his gaze no longer catches on them, on the memory of the first night he came face to face with the Sith that still makes him shiver if he dwells on it. He looks up instead, wonders if he should wake Madi, if she'd want to see this sunrise. It looks like it'll be a beautiful one. But then...

He looks over his shoulder at the quiet hum that breaks the dawn's silence. 

"Are you keeping watch?" Clarke asks, blinking sleepily at him, one hand still stretched out over the empty space in bed next to her, where he left the sheets rumpled and cooling about an hour ago. Her voice is light, if a little rough with sleep, but her eyes are quite serious when they meet his. They could pretend she is teasing - reminding them both of their last trip to Coruscant together, when she kept watch over his safety instead. She'd let him pretend, he thinks. But there is another question underneath the surface - _do you not feel safe here, do you not feel like the war is finally over?_

"It's okay," Bellamy says. He'll meet her somewhere halfway. "Just making sure the sun is rising."

Her lips twitch into a smile.

"Micromanager," she says. 

"You're one to talk," he says, letting the curtains fall and closing the distance to their bed in a few quick strides. Clarke shifts underneath the blankets as he sits on the edge so she's half curled around him, her stomach pressed against his back, one hand resting on his knee. Her hair spills over his pillow, wild and unruly from his fingers pulling at it the previous night, glowing like a dormant firebrand as the sun finally begins to crest over Coruscant's glittering horizon. It's too soft still to cast any deep shadows on her face, but Bellamy traces her jawline all the same, wondering at the light on her skin. They've hardly been apart these past few weeks - since the Battle of Zygerria, as it becomes known, they've been together for every step of the arduous repair of Arkadia. She's been there for every budget meeting, every consultation with the citizens displaced by the radioactive storms they're still mapping, every night they stayed up pouring over the data trying to find a solution that would make everyone happy. It's rotten work, and Clarke has stuck her nose into every facet of it with a gleam in her eye a foolish person might call glee.

They couldn't have known. The way she made him burn when they met - it should have been terrifying. Maybe it was, and maybe it is only his adoration for her now that eases his memory of it. He brushes the pad of his thumb over her lips, feels them part, feels her warm breath on his hand, and flushes at the knowing look in her eyes.

"Falling in love with you was inevitable," he murmurs. "I don't know why I even tried to fight it."

"Hmm," Clarke says, considering. "Does that scare you?"

Maybe it should.

Sometimes, during the past few weeks, in the moments of quiet between the endless parade of disasters that always seem to require their immediate attention... Bellamy gets hit with a wonder so strong that it feels like a blow to the solar plexus. He and Clarke were in the right - or wrong - place at the right time long enough to see each other as more than enemies, and he loves her now, and she loves him back enough to bring down empires and tear apart battlefields.

There are terrible things you can do with that sort of unapologetic love at your back. There are also very good things you can do.

"No," he says, and lets himself smile. Clarke blinks, slow and pleased. She tries to tug him back into bed, and normally Bellamy would be an enthusiastic participant in cuddles, but - "We're missing the sunrise," he says reproachfully as she tries to bring him down. He pins her arm to her wriggling hips and manages to heave her up, carrying her all the way to the window before she works a finger into the pressure point on his side and makes him drop her. "You're a pain in the ass," Bellamy tells her, and she's smiling so wide when she tries to kiss him that he mostly gets teeth.

"That's not what the Holonet is saying," Clarke teases and Bellamy rolls his eyes as she settles against his side as surely as she belongs there. The gossip mills are, _of course_ , having a field day with the unanswered questions still surrounding the Battle of Zygerria. In the absence of concrete information everyone and their mother is speculating about the Senator who came out of nowhere and the Jedi who turned her back on the Order to stand by him. The speech Bellamy is here to make to the Senate today certainly won't help matters, but it's not time for Bellamy to don those robes yet. 

For another few moments, he just wants to be Bellamy.

Clarke quiets - maybe because she wants the solitude too, maybe because she's picking up on Bellamy's intentions. And they watch the sun clear Coruscant's jagged horizon and cast golden rays through the smog. The skyscrapers cast long shadows, stretching to and past them, and Bellamy thinks about the people in the rebellion who made it far enough to see sunrises on other planets today, and the ones who didn't. Clarke is warm and solid at his side. When the sun gets blinding he ducks his head to press a lingering kiss to her temple, and later she tucks a small blaster into the pocket of his Senator robes before kissing him goodbye, and Bellamy thinks that it will take a while for those instincts to dissipate.

But they have time, now. 

 

 

 

 

 

**CORUSCANT**

 

For a planet she spent so much time on, returning to Coruscant feels nothing like a homecoming to Clarke. She feels like she's aged so much since she and Anya were first sent to investigate Arkadia. It could have happened a lifetime ago, and any feelings of wistful belonging are out of reach now, too. They don't intend to stay on Coruscant long. They're only here for Bellamy to make some ultimatums to the Senate, for both of them to give testimonials on the battle, to help Raven move the last of her things out of her apartment as she and Zeke prepare to go on the planet-hopping galaxy tour they've been dreaming of, and of course, to address the matter of Madi's kidnapping. 

"I wasn't kidnapped," Madi snaps when Master Indra dares to suggest it. "I ran away. Clarke didn't even know I was following her."

Clarke adjusts her weight onto the other leg and tries not to wince. Several rounds in a bacta chamber have mended most of the destruction Octavia wrought on her leg and left only a scar that twists down her thigh, but it'll take some time to rebuild her strength. Bellamy went back into Arkadia's woods one day and carved her a rough walking stick, but they've been standing in front of the Council for a while, with little sign of progress. 

"I think Madi is too young to make this decision on her own," Lexa says. "Given more time to adapt, and a more traditional Master - "

"More time to forget that I had a family that loved me, you mean?" Madi says. Clarke squeezes her hand. 

"Don't interrupt," Clarke murmurs to her, and Madi falls quiet at her side, simmering. They spent the whole flight to Coruscant talking about what the Order would accept, what buttons they would try to push, and how to stay the course. They come too far now to lose each other - Madi has been practically glued to her side since the Battle, and Clarke has no intention of letting the Order rip them apart. 

"Emotions aside," Luna says lowly, "I think we can all agree that a child leaving the safety of the Order leaves her more vulnerable to the Dark Side. If you don't have a plan to keep her safe, Clarke, this whole discussion is moot."

"Of course I have a plan," Clarke says. "I... I'll never be the Jedi that Master Anya was. But she taught me many things, and if I'm being completely honest - Madi doesn't need a Jedi Master." A ripple of disagreement passes through the Council, as well as traces of curiosity. Clarke seizes them. "Forgetting our attachments, shoving love down and locking it away where we think it won't hurt us - that didn't work for me. It wouldn't have worked for Octavia Blake, and it won't work for Madi. She needs freedom. She needs a community that won't punish the smallest hints of the Dark Side - "

"Do you know what you're saying?" Indra thunders.

"Yes," Clarke snaps, as Madi squeezes her hand so tightly that Clarke starts to feel pins and needles in her fingertips. "I'm saying there's a way back. There's forgiveness. And the Order doesn't know how to give that."

Luna's face betrays very little, but if Clarke didn't know better, she'd say the Grandmaster approves.

"I believe you," Luna says serenely, settling back into her seat and clasping her hands in her lap around the hilt of a lightsaber that Clarke knows carries a purple blade, one of a kind - a balance between the Light and Dark. "You have my blessings. Go, Clarke Griffin, Madi. May the Force be with you."

Madi leans heavily against Clarke, pressing her face into Clarke's stomach, and Clarke feels her relief and joy as clearly as her own. She wouldn't have rested until they got the outcome they wanted of course, but now it's over. _Really over._ They get to go home.

"Wait," Indra asks, before they can leave the Council chamber. Cold fingers of dread creep down Clarke's spine, but then - they expected this question. The only shocking thing is that it came so late. "What happened to the Sith Apprentice? Blodreina?" Indra asks. 

Clarke remembers Bellamy with his hand outstretched. A flash of red as a lightsaber was ignited. Searing pain, the world spinning as she bled out into the sand. The sky falling down. _Can you wish on this kind of shooting star?_ Blurred glimpses of Bellamy's anguished face as her body was carried back to the shuttle and she passed in and out of consciousness like a needle through thread. And then, the quiet calm of birdsong as Bellamy found a distant clearing in the forest and said _we'll build a house right here._ Niylah's face, torn between yearning and horror.

"She died in the Battle of Zygerria," Clarke says at last. Madi squeezes her hand tightly. 

"Did you kill her?" Indra asks, reeling back. 

"Not intentionally," Clarke says softly. Luna holds her gaze for a beat too long, her Nautolan eyes dark and depthless, a void filled with the afterthought of stars. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Luna says. She glances around the Council chamber. "Do we have any other questions for Clarke and Madi?"

"None," Lexa murmurs, echoed by the others. 

"Then you're dismissed," Luna says with a nod. "May the Force be with you both."

"Be safe, Clarke Griffin," Jackson says with a smile. "Take good care of Madi."

"She will," Madi says pointedly, and tugs Clarke's hand towards the door. Clarke smiles, mostly at Jackson, and lets Madi pull her away. She's been patient enough with this, and she makes a mental note to tell Madi that once they're out of earshot. Madi tilts her head back to look up at the arching ceiling as they walk away. "Is it bad that I'll actually kind of miss this place?" she asks Clarke. 

"No," Clarke says wistfully. "It was home for a while, wasn't it?"

"It wasn't all bad," Madi agrees. Her eyes snap to Clarke's, wide with hope. "But we'll make a better one, right?"

"We couldn't stop Bellamy if we tried," Clarke says dryly.

"Wait!"

Their smiles fade as pounding footsteps grow louder in their wake. Madi takes a small step closer to Clarke, half protective of her, half wanting to be protected, as Gaia catches up to them, her dark brown robe fluttering after her. 

"Madi," Gaia says reproachfully. "I just... I wanted to say that I would have chosen you. I could have been your Master."

Madi's hand clutches at Clarke's. 

"You could have," Clarke says, and she tries to soften her voice, tries not to sound as hard as she feels inside. She's only had a few weeks with Madi but she can already feel the Force uniting around them, all the golden threads of possibility tying them together. They resonate. "But you wouldn't have understood her." _Not like I do_ , Clarke doesn't say. _Not like Bellamy does._  Clarke is not a good Jedi, and neither is Madi. They would have had to cut something out of themselves to stay here, and people like Gaia and Lexa are not even close to understanding what it would cost them. Clarke cannot explain it to them.

"You don't have to worry about me, Master Gaia," Madi says. "I'll be safe."

Then she turns and pulls Clarke towards the glimpse of sky at the end of the hallway. They do not look back. 

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

"Slice with the grain of the meat," Murphy murmurs, carefully nudging the cutting board to show his progress to his rapt audience. "It'll give you a clean cut."

Jasper squints suspiciously between Murphy's work and his before haphazardly hacking at the flank in front of him. The result doesn't look nearly as smooth as Murphy's.

"I think I fucked up."

Harper unsuccessfully stifles a giggle.

"Come on," Murphy says, irritation seeping into his voice and sharp hand movements. Jasper edges out of reach of the knife he's swinging around, but doesn't stop hanging on to Murphy's every word. "You idiots have really never made a fillet before?"

"Is that the..." Miller makes a half-hearted lewd gesture and the room erupts. Emori and Murphy have equal but opposite reactions - Emori falls off her chair laughing as Murphy stabs the knife hilt-up into the nearest cutting board and puts his hands on his hips.

"Jasper and I have survived pretty much exclusively on pancakes, algae, and instant noodles our whole life," Monty explains, trying to smooth over the offense.

"They're pretty good pancakes though," Harper says. She elbows Emori and Raven. "While they were on cooking duty during the rebellion, it was pretty much all _we_ ate, too. Not sure if it's a good or bad thing that you missed it."

"Are you going to take this seriously, or not? You're the ones who wanted to learn how to cook," Murphy complains. "Grab the fucking knife and come over here."

"That's Murphy's best pick up line," Emori says, probably not intending to be as loud as she ends up being.

Murphy points at her.

"You, come here and be useful too," he says. Emori makes a show of dragging herself off her bar stool but she's smiling as she leans against the counter next to Murphy. He passes her a handful of seed pods. "I need these ground up," he says.

Emori sniffs at them and then pulls a tiny lever on one of the fingers of her outrageously oversized metal hand. It converts into what looks suspiciously like a spice grinder. Monty's mouth drops.

"I wasn't so surprised that your hand was full of weapons," Monty says as she scatters finely ground spices from her hand, "But you fit _that_ in too?"

"I spend way too much time around Murphy," Emori explains.

"For the record," Jasper tells Murphy, "I am taking this very seriously. But it needs to be, uh, - you know what, maybe we should just watch you do it. For the first time. And we'll follow along next time."

"You think there's going to be another lesson?" Murphy snorts. "Cute."

"If you give us another lesson I'll take a look at your hyperdrive," Raven calls from her perch on a nearby stool, where she has done zero work and has a perfect view of everyone else's culinary failures.

"Deal," Emori says immediately, flashing her a grin.

Murphy spreads his arms wide and gives her a flat look.

"You know what you are?" he asks. "A sell out. A filthy sell out."

"Is the pan supposed to be smoking like that?" Jasper asks loudly.

It's almost comedic, how quickly every head in the room turns towards the stove.

" _No,_ " Murphy says.

Just under an hour later, Jasper carefully takes the tray of food down into the dungeons. He can't see his feet underneath the tray, and raising it above his head makes the cup of moonshine wobble alarmingly, so he steps slowly, feeling out the edge of every stair with his foot.

At the far end of the dungeon, a small figure lies curled in the darkness, just past the reach of the light from the hall.

"Are you here to take me to my execution?" a hoarse voice asks, with little inflection.

"I made you dinner, actually," Jasper says, trying for a light tone. "A fancy one. We picked up another pirate while you were gone. He's teaching us how to cook. It's only a tiny bit singed."

Octavia stirs half-heartedly, a shadow among shadows.

"My last meal?" she asks.

"Knock it off," Jasper says. "We haven't decided what will happen to you yet, but they won't kill you. Clarke's new kid says you came back to the Light, whatever that means."

"You should kill me," Octavia urges, peering up at him through half-crazed eyes. In the darkness it's hard to tell what colour they are.

But she doesn't seem like she's going to immediately murder him, so he settles the tray in front of her and eases the cup of moonshine off the datapad.

"It would be kinder to kill me," Octavia continues, "Than to lock me up for the rest of my life like my mother did."

Jasper sits next to her gingerly, wincing at the hard stone that digs into his tailbone. There's a padded cot on the other side of the cell of course, but Jasper doesn't think Octavia's gone anywhere near it.

Inside of him there is a locked box of memories and a melancholy he pretends isn't there. He takes his time searching for the right words.

"I don't really want to talk about it," Jasper says. He stares straight ahead at the cell bars that divide the light in the hallway because if he looks at Octavia, his throat might close up. "So I'm only going to tell you once. But uh, a long time ago, I wanted to die. We were kids. A little bit before we joined the Skyripper."

Octavia is quiet. Jasper hugs the datapad for comfort and laces his fingers together. The person he was several years ago is, all at once, so distant and so present. Jasper has never stopped carrying him around, and doesn't think he ever will, but sometimes he doesn't notice the weight, and he thinks maybe that is a good sign.

"I know you think it's the only way forward right now," Jasper says softly. "Because so did I. But you and Monty kept me going, one day at a time. You saved my life even if you didn't know it. So I'm going to save you."

"It's not the same. I'm a Sith," Octavia snarls at him. It would be scarier, maybe, if he hadn't spent the last few years seeing her sulk because she lost a thumb war match and it was her turn to wash the dishes.

"That's just a word," Jasper says. Then he powers on the datapad and starts swiping a finger through their extensive collection of music.

"What are you doing?" Octavia asks, her confusion momentarily washing away the aggressiveness.

"Do you remember when Monty and I taught you Alderaanian square dancing?"

Jasper grins as Octavia's eyes slowly narrow into slits.

"Don't you dare," she says. Jasper presses play with looking down at the datapad, and watches her face pass through an exciting emotional journey as she registers that it's not, in fact, Alderaanian folk music, but instead one of her favourite songs.

They sit in quiet for a few minutes as a mellow string instrument plucks its way through a meandering melody. Octavia hesitantly reaches for the tray and takes a small corner of Murphy's filet on her fork. She can't entirely hide her appreciation for it as she chews. Jasper grins at the far wall.

"But really," Jasper says. "I did find footage of us teaching you how to square dance."

Octavia's resulting shriek echoes up and out of the dungeon and, in poor lighting, the shape of her mouth as she shoves at his shoulder might be mistaken for a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

_**three years later** _

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Something whisper-soft brushes against the shell of Clarke's ear. She does not move, keeping her breathing deep and steady. Her awareness comes back to her like the gently lapping waves of a disturbed pond. Even after three years of peace, the militaresque habits she developed with the Jedi take precedence. Her brain notes three other living sentients nearby and ranks them by danger. She stretches out further with the Force, or - not further, per se, but _deeper_ across the area she was already aware of. There are birds in the garden: the source of the sweet birdsong she hears, their souls as sharp and brief as sparks to kindling. Something with a slow and ponderous mind is burrowing under the vegetable garden again; she'll have to coax it back into the forest.

Warm breath spills across her cheek and she struggles not to smile. She's comfortable where she is, the mattress soft and inviting under the side of her body, her limbs all askew and heavy with lingering sleep.

"I know you're awake."

Fingers trail across her hip. She feels a kiss at the corner of her mouth and her resolve melts away, her smile forcing its way through. She laughs quietly to herself and turns her face into the pillow to hide it.

"You're not even trying to hide it now," Bellamy says, and worms his hands around her waist, flipping her over. Clarke opens her eyes as he slots one of his knees between her thighs and cages her in between his elbows.

"Nooo," she protests, picking up a stray pillow with a twitch of her fingers and directing the Force to hit the back of his head with it. "Don't wanna wake up."

"Yes you do," Bellamy growls, batting the floating pillow away before bending down to press a barrage of light kisses on her forehead and cheekbones. "It's a beautiful day and we're gonna go and do things."

"Or," Clarke says, wrapping her arm around the back of his neck and pulling him down into an affectionate headlock. "We could sleep all morning."

Just as she says this, her stomach makes a soft rumble of hunger. Bellamy props himself up on his elbow and glances at it significantly. Clarke groans at the betrayal of her own body. She wraps a leg around his hip and pulls him flush against her. His mouth finds hers with comfortable ease and they kiss languidly. Bellamy's fingers trail along her side down to her waist, where his hand settles firmly, his palm radiating heat where it cups her.

"See," Clarke whispers when they finally break apart. "Isn't this nice?"

"Hmm," Bellamy says noncommittally, nosing at her jaw. "We have responsibilities."

And then, as though they rehearsed it, a cascade of knocks comes at the bedroom door.

"You guys better not be kissing when I come in!" Madi hollers from the other side, punctuating every word with a rap of her knuckles against wood. She's recently become very enthusiastic about the concept of secret knocks. Clarke tries to follow the rhythm of today's knocks and gives up, letting her head fall back against the pillow. "I'm coming in, in ten, nine, eight...!"

"You two couldn't have coordinated that better if you tried," Clarke says accusingly to Bellamy.

"I think that means it's the Force," he says with a shit-eating grin.

"It is not!"

"The Force wants you to get out of bed and do stuff today. I am but a mere agent of the incomprehensible will of the universe - "

Clarke flicks her wrist and the pillow that Bellamy discarded earlier comes flying back to hit him in the back of the head with a muffled thud, just as Madi bursts in, still hollering about what she'll do as revenge if they're found kissing. She drops that line of discussion, immediately, to join in on the middle of the pillow fight. Bellamy disappears under a flurry of feathers, his laughter muffled by the pillows that both Clarke and Madi send flying.

"This isn't fair!" he calls, trying to dodge another pillow. "I have diplomatic immunity!"

"Only for one more day," Clarke retorts. "Tomorrow you're fair game."

"I'm willing to negotiate a truce if breakfast is included," Madi says, sitting down on the bed in between her and Bellamy.

Clarke nestles back into the mattress and pulls the sheets up to her shoulders, though she hardly needs more warmth, with the morning sunlight reaching this side of the house first.

"Meditation first, then we can have breakfast," Clarke grumbles, hoping she can get an extra half hour of quiet.

"Already meditated," Madi replies, gently tugging on the sheets. "I'm hungry _now_."

"I'll make breakfast," Bellamy says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "How about pancakes with those berries you picked yesterday?"

Madi's eyes light up.

"Yes please! You're a better cook than Clarke, anyway," she jokes with a sly look.

"That's because she spent half her adolescence undercover eating bugs and the other half living in palaces with chefs," Bellamy teases. Clarke groans and tugs the sheets higher. "Clarke, if you don't show up for breakfast, I'm not saving you any."

It's an empty threat and they all know it. Clarke smiles to herself as they leave the room together, their laughter and voices fading down the hall.

"Can we put the berries _in_ the pancakes?"

"I don't see a reason not to," Bellamy says, and whatever Madi replies with is too soft to hear.

Clarke closes her eyes and reaches back for her dream. It's nearly dispersed. All she has left in her mind are glimpses and fleeting sensations. The corner of a sharp-toothed smile. The tickle of long swaying grasses against her bare legs and the squelch of mud between her toes. The smell of grease and turpentine. Gentle hands braiding her hair, the accidental scrape of nails against her scalp. It was a good dream, but Clarke has started making peace with what she's loved and lost. She doesn't need to cling to it.

She dozes for another few minutes before the sunlight streaming through the window is too strong, the bedroom too warm. She tugs her robe closer as she stands and opens the garden door in the bedroom, inviting in a cool breeze to chase the fluttering curtains.

Outside it is a golden summer day. The garden is in full bloom, flowers with their petals spread wide to catch the light, fruit so heavy on the vine that it is sinking down and brushing the dirt. Lazy, huge insects drift on the breeze. At the end of the garden, a figure sits on the cobblestone with their dark head bowed. Her hair is greasy, tangled, her eyes unfocused as she stares into the distance. A wilting potted plant sits haphazardly in her lap. Her fingers absently tear a long leaf into tiny strips that stain her fingertips green. _Octavia_. An ink blot against the verdant green of the garden. Even now, a year and a half after Bellamy's armies drove Azgeda back, after Roan took the throne to lead them into more peaceful times, after Madi raised her tiny hands on a battlefield and asked Octavia to stop.... even now, the songbirds and the bumblebees veer sharply away when they fly too close to her. But she is here, in the garden on a bright sunny morning, when she spends most days indoors lying in bed. That's something. Small victories.

"I'm trying your technique," Octavia says absently, gesturing vaguely at the wilting plant. Clarke sits down next to her and looks outward over Arkadia's forested slopes.

"How did it go?" Clarke asks. Octavia comes back to herself long enough to shake the dying plant mockingly at her and glare. Several leaves fall off and come to rest on her crossed legs, browned and crackling like autumn come early.

Clarke exhales heavily. Three years later, and she and Octavia have never found a rhythm. Everyone else in the house has one. Clarke loves Bellamy. Madi is Clarke's, something between a Padawan and a daughter and the little sister she's never had. Bellamy and Madi adore each other, Madi flitting around Bellamy like a moon orbiting a beloved planet. Bellamy loves Octavia, even now, after everything, to cry tears of frustration on the days when he can't get her to eat or come out of bed in the morning, and at Octavia's worst, he and Madi are the ones she will try to be better for.

But Clarke and Octavia - sometimes Octavia will look at her with wild, distant eyes, and Clarke thinks that they've never left the day on her ship when she tried to strangle the Jedi she thought would imprison her. Octavia has never really stopped being the girl under the floor. The girl who felt too much too strong and was forced to hide it. Not then, not during her apprenticeship to Nia, and not now, in a remote and solitary villa in Arkadia's forests. And Clarke has never quite been able to forget or forgive that Octavia would have impaled Bellamy in the deserts of Zygerria if Clarke had been a little slower. 

"You're pulling in," Clarke says, trying not to fall into the voice she uses when training Madi. Octavia is older, sharper. She does not want to think of herself as a student, even on the rare occasions she does ask Clarke for help. "Focus on the plant, on its life force, and then try to travel outward. The plant is just a gate. It's not a bandage."

She's wondering if Octavia is even listening to her when she speaks, changing the subject so rapidly that Clarke has to blink.

"Can you pull memories out of someone's mind?" she asks.

"I don't recommend that path," Clarke says stiffly.

"What if I'm willing?" Octavia says. "What if I manage to relax my shields? We don't have any photos of - " she swallows, and darts a look at Clarke. In the morning sunlight, her eyes are a strange yellow-green. Not as blue as they used to be, but no longer the Sith gold they were on the battlefield. "We don't have any photos of my mother," Octavia says. "Do you think - could you draw her?"

Clarke is taken aback. She's been painting again, when she's not teaching Madi, but she didn't know Octavia had noticed.

"You can describe her to me," Clarke says at last. "We can try that."

"It won't be as realistic," Octavia tries to argue, but Clarke gives her a reprimanding look. 

"We'll try it first," she says, and Octavia lapses into silence.

In the Force, a howling maelstorm sits next to Clarke. Spending a lot of time around Octavia tends to give Clarke a headache if she doesn't close herself off, but today, she thinks she might sense gratitude coming from her. And.... maybe even a whisper of hope.

She waits for a few more moments as Octavia contemplatively strokes one of the leaves. The songbirds cheerfully chase each other away from one of the birdfeeders hanging from a ribbon between two trees, and Clarke watches the contraption bounce on the ribbon's slack after their feathery little bodies launch themselves off of it. It calms eventually, like the surface of a still pool after a thrown rock sinks to its resting place, like all things do, given enough time. 

"Lincoln's coming today," Clarke says softly, and Octavia startles. She reaches up and absently rubs a strand of greasy hair between two chlorophyll-stained fingertips and frowns. "Do you want us to pick anything up from the city?"

"You're going today?" Octavia mutters.

"It's election day," Clarke says.

Octavia's frown deepens.

"I thought that was two weeks away?" she asks.

 _You spent most of the last two weeks staring at the ceiling_ , Clarke does not say. Octavia takes her silence as answer enough. They watch a fluffy white cloud change form in the sky as a low-flying freighter coming to deliver goods to the city flies through and scatters it.

"There was..." Octavia begins hesitantly. "I don't know where it was. But there's a bakery that Bell used to get pastries from. Just a few times, when we had the money. I'd like one of those, if it's still open."

Clarke looks away to hide her smile.

"Will do," she says, and then she goes in for breakfast, leaving Octavia to ponder in the garden.

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

Arkadia's capital city is nearly unrecognizable from the hollow, ravaged shell that Clarke and Bellamy and their rebel forces scurried through only three years ago. A lot of construction and restoration is still ongoing, and far over their heads the sound of work crews hammering new shingles onto the roofs of nearby buildings still rings out, but the progress they've made is remarkable. The Arkadians returned to their home with iron wills, determined to rebuild it even through the radioactive storms that still require careful monitoring.

Clarke and Madi walk Bellamy to the palace, stopped frequently on the sidewalk by previous rebels or civilians who recognize them from the Holonet reports. Clarke still doesn't know what to make of their names being known across the galaxy. There's a reason they're raising Madi in a quiet home far outside the city limits, hidden to all but their friends.

The overwhelming attention is only one of the reasons Clarke doesn't come into the city often. For the first year, neither of them could walk past the grocery store where Roma died trying to chase after Charlotte. They pass the spot now, and Bellamy slows his pace to trail his fingertips along a metal plaque on the wall that bears her name and a short inscription. There are dozens and dozens of them littered about the city, all bearing a message from someone who wanted to immortalize a memory. Roma's is already becoming worn smooth and shiny by the hands that touch her name for luck every day on their way to work. There are little wildflowers tucked into the cracks in the wall around the plaque, too deliberately arranged to be an accident. Clarke presses her shoulder against Bellamy's in silent comfort as he reads Roma's inscription to himself. He looks up and smiles sadly at her, and then they move on.

Clarke and Madi halt at the bottom of the palace steps. Bellamy walks up alone, his shoulders straight and sure. Clarke watches him falter at the top of the stairs and knows he's remembering Wells' death. She still can't go near that spot, not without falling to her knees with the pain of it echoing out into the Force, but it eases her heart to see people walking up and down the stairs so freely. Long-robed aides gesture wildly as they campaign for last minute votes. A group of Bothan and Rodian youth goodnaturedly debate on the steps. Friends and students wearing their school colours eat lunch on the sides and gaze out onto the promenade. There are even a few solitary figures reading or knitting in the shade of the balustrade's gargoyles. Arkadia has been given back to its people, in more ways than one.

Bellamy vanishes into the crowd gathered around the palace's towering carved doors. Madi tugs at Clarke's hand impatiently.

"Come on," she says. "I want to go see the lothcat races."

"You are far too young to gamble," Clarke jokes, but she lets Madi pull her into the market anyway. The open-air market, sheltered by colourful tarps until they rebuild its previous roof, is a riot of sounds and sights and smells. Shoppers effortlessly weave between vendor carts and make room for the work crews that occasionally push wheelbarrows full of bricks through the crowd. Hawkers call out discounts in half a dozen foreign dialects. A nearby behemoth of a man with tattoos on his bald head that mark him as a previous Eligius convict smiles behind a velvet blanket covered in a beginner's enthusiastic attempts at glassblowing.

Clarke and Madi take their time buying more spices to restock the kitchen, new boots for Madi - the latest in a valiant attempt to keep up with her growth spurts, and linger by the candlemaker to smell her wares until Clarke is nearly woozy with the scents clogging her nostrils.

The bells of a nearby clocktower toll just as they've found the lothcats, which are mewing madly and clambering one on top of each other in their wooden crates to nuzzle their heads against the palms of reaching children. In line with the local children, their heads bowed over the wall of the crate as they coo at the creatures and point out the cutest ones, Madi looks like just another Arkadian kid. 

Clarke smiles at her and the beanie she's got pulled down around her ears even though it's summer, because Miller gifted it to her and she couldn't bear to wait for the weather to turn cool.

A hand brushes her back in greeting. Clarke leans into Bellamy without looking, knowing the weight of his palm against her hip, the smell of the soap they share. He presses a kiss to the side of her head.

"You voted?" Clarke asks.

He grins at her, eyes soft and hazy. Unburdened, for a brilliant, peaceful moment in the morning sunlight. They will never stop fighting, but their wars are different now. They've put down their blasters and their lightsabers. They've become the teachers, the activists, the family they were always meant to be, in a kinder world.

"All set. This time tomorrow," Bellamy says, "Arkadia will be ruled by a completely democratic government."

"I can't wait to see who they've chosen," Clarke says with a smile, turning her gaze back to Madi. She was invited to vote too, but it didn't feel right to, even though it was Wells' plan before he died, even though Arkadia is more her home than ever. She and Madi will always be a little apart, marked by Force connections that supersede borders or governments. Citizens of the universe. "So what do we do now?" Clarke asks as she strolls arm in arm with Bellamy, Madi darting from vendor stall to vendor stall up ahead. "Take a vacation?"

"Actually," Bellamy begins carefully, his eyes bright as he meets her gaze. Clarke's lips twitch with amusement. "The reason I took so long at the palace is that I ran into one of my old schoolteachers, and he had some recommendations..."

"A new project?" Clarke asks with a laugh. "I should have known."

"They were good points!" Bellamy argues. "More apprenticeship jobs for youth once they finish school is going to help families that lost adults in the occupation regain their footing faster, and we're thinking of public seminars in the libraries..."

Clarke lets him speak as they walk, watches the light in his eyes, the movement of his hands as he gestures. In the Force he is bright and warm and brilliant, as vivid as he is in flesh and blood. She loves him, and she feels it rise in the Force, in her chest, a wave of adoration for him and for the family they've become.

Together.

She tugs him to a stop in the middle of the marketplace. A Twi'lek bumps into Clarke's back but she hardly notices, fixed as she is on his freckles, on the deep brown of his eyes as he forgets what he was saying in the middle of a sentence. She cups a hand behind his neck and balances on her toes, and he effortlessly meets her kiss halfway. His lips are warm and soft. His breath still tastes like the fruit spread he and Madi prepared for breakfast. Clarke lingers in the kiss, smiling into it, unbothered by the stream of people around them. When they pull away at last, Bellamy huffs a quiet laugh.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"Just wanted to," Clarke says.

They hear a _tsk_ and turn as one to see that Madi's returned and is tapping her foot against the cobblestones with exaggerated impatience.

"If you two are quite done..." she says dramatically, her voice high and regal. She sounds so much like Abby that Clarke immediately laughs.

"Yes, let's go," she says, and Madi takes her free hand. They fall into step, all three of them, picking their way through the crowd.

"I want to dye my hair," Madi says, face upturned to look up at Clarke, her eyes squinting against the sunlight and making her look even more determined.

"You'll have to lighten it first," Clarke warns, reaching out to roll one of Madi's brunette braids between her fingers. "It's a lot of work."

"Just my Padawan braid, then," Madi says. "So it matches you."

Clarke just grins.

"Maybe. We'll discuss it later."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**ARKADIA**

 

After dinner, Clarke stands at the windows overlooking the garden. The setting sun has streaked bright swathes of wispy clouds with pink and gold. The snowcapped peaks of Arkadia's distant mountains are glowing too, like beacons, like candles in the window ready to guide the night home. The first stars will appear soon, bright against an ink blue sky that reaches out into an infinite, carrying thousands of other worlds with it. And following the stars, the forest will unfurl again, the day-blooms curling in on themselves against the darkness, the moss and mushrooms and phosphorescent ferns waking up instead. The forest will glow blue and green underneath its canopy, and she and Bellamy will go to bed soon, where they'll curl together and whisper until their eyelids grow too heavy to fight, and the gentle hum of insects in the garden will carry them to dawn. This is what they fought for, isn't it? Quiet, peaceful nights, and the certainty that tomorrow will be another safe day.

Out between the day-blooms, Octavia and Lincoln are slowly going through their last kata of the evening. Lincoln moves through the familiar patterns of a Jedi childhood with a steady, unhurried ease, the movements second nature to him even years after he left the Order for the Senate. Octavia mirrors him, not quite as smooth, not quite as sure on her feet as she steps over the cobblestone. Clarke is tempted to join them. She closes her eyes and imagines the stones under her bare feet - probably still warm from the afternoon sun beating down on them - and the strain in her arms as she holds them up above her head as though blocking a downward strike. But Clarke doesn't move from her post at the window. Octavia's mind has calmed with the katas, gone from a hurricane to the gentle rains that come at the end of a summer thunderstorm.

Clarke decides to draw them instead, something for Niylah to hang up, and hurries to the bedroom where she keeps all her supplies in the closet. She'd leave them on the floor, if left to her own devices, no Order or parent to command her otherwise, but Bellamy really did think of everything when he built this house - even a small stool that she climbs on top of to reach the highest shelves where her spare drawing pads are.

Clarke stands on her tip toes and snags the corner of one. Something shifts on the shelf and falls past her, hitting the floor with a clatter.

A comm, untouched for years. The impact turns it on, and a hologram bursts to life behind Clarke.

_Click._

"Years ago, the Jedi helped my father forge peace on Arkadia. Now I beg you to help me in my struggle against Azgeda."

Tears prickle at the corners of Clarke's eyes as she hears Wells' voice for the first time in nearly three years. She turns slowly, her footing on the stool suddenly uncertain, her whole world off-kilter the way it was when she first heard this message. Until she turns and sees the bedroom through his flickering, partially translucent image, a small and traitorous part of her is still hoping he is here somehow, alive and safe and real. It has been so long.

"Oh, Wells," she says softly, as the hologram continues ever onwards, trapped in the past.  _He should be here to see what we've built,_ she thinks with an aching heart.  _It's not fair that he and so many others are gone._

"I regret that I am unable to present my request to the Council in person, but my planet has fallen under attack and I'm afraid Azgeda is not allowing official craft to leave."

She didn't cry at the funeral, or she thinks she didn't. It's hard to remember. It was a humid day sometime after they'd finished licking their wounds from the Battle of Zygerria. The heat hung as heavy as their hearts, everyone's attention half-drawn by the storm clouds on the horizon so low and charged that static seemed to spark from every fingertip. She remembers that in excruciating detail, and wishing it was over already, that all the visiting politicians who hadn't given the rebellion any help would stop looking so solemn as the carbonite was lowered into the ground. Everything else is a blur.

"In peace," Clarke whispers, "May you leave this shore."

In the kitchen Madi, who is biting her lip and levitating clean plates back into the cupboards even though Clarke has told her not to, falters in her concentration. A plate wobbles in mid-air, and is saved from its demise by Bellamy's quick reflexes.

"You okay?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at her as he places it back. "Don't push yourself."

"Clarke..." Madi says absently. She shakes her head of the Force's reach. "You should go to her."

In the bedroom, Wells' glitching silhouette spreads his arms wide. His sleeves flutter in the calm of a long-dissipated storm.

"This is our most desperate hour," Wells swears.

"In love, may you find the next," Clarke says, unheard and years too late. The tears are streaming freely now but she smiles through them at her oldest friend.

"Help me, Clarke," he begs. "You're my only hope. 

"Safe passage on your travels," Clarke murmurs, reaching out, her fingertips just out of reach of the hologram's outstretched palm.

The message ends.

_Click._

"Until we meet again," Clarke finishes, and the message begins its loop again. It plays to completion once more before she realizes Bellamy is standing in the doorway. His eyes are dark and knowing, a familiar weight behind them.

Clarke steps off the stool towards him, and that's enough to set him into motion. Bellamy reaches her in two strides and engulfs her in a hug, his arms solid and grounding around her. She presses her face to the slope of his neck and feels him trembling slightly too.

"Do you think we made him proud?" Clarke mumbles into his collar. Bellamy's arm twitches against her back.

"Yes," he says. If there's any hesitation, she doesn't catch it.

"I... we're happy, now," Clarke says, and is only a little shocked to find that it is the truth. "I didn't think that was possible - after everything," she whispers.

"It is," Bellamy vows.

"I wish he was here to see it," Clarke says. "Him, and Anya, and - all the rebels. And everyone else that's scattered in the universe - I know they're happy and busy, but I wish - "

"I know," Bellamy says. She feels him slump against her with a rattling sigh, and it's a relief to know she's not alone in feeling this way.

"Tell me it was worth it," Clarke begs. Bellamy pulls her close and presses his cheek against her hair. His breath spills along her hairline, warm and whisper-soft, and a moment later he turns his head and kisses her temple.

"It will be," Bellamy says. So Clarke closes her eyes and lets go of the last of the pain, though there will always be cracks.

A moment later, they both hear a crash of glass from the kitchen, followed by Madi practicing some vocabulary she _definitely_ picked up from the last time 'Uncle Murphy' visited. 

"She's levitating plates again, isn't she?" Clarke asks, smiling softly. Bellamy looks only a little guilty. 

"I figured it was good practice for her."

" _Ugh._ "

"About the vacation you mentioned, earlier," Bellamy says, gently touching the back of her hand. "If you want to go, we'll go. There's a whole universe for us to see. We'll visit everyone, see the sights, probably narrowly avoid an intergalactic conflict or two..." Clarke feels a rush of affection for him and can't resist the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. 

"We could," she says, taking his hand and squeezing it. All around the Force sings with belonging, resonating in her bones like the last perfect note of an orchestra that's brought you to tears. "But I'm good where you are."

And she means it.

 

 

 

_fin._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes that got cut because I couldn't get the dialogue right and/or accidentally wandered into a different branch of plot:  
> \- Jasper meets Madi, immediately yells 'o shit Bellarke had an ENTIRE KID' and when Monty points out that Madi is, in fact, at least ten years old, Jasper shrugs and says _'fuck if I know how human aging works'_  
>  \- Sinclair saw Raven kicking ass in her homemade starfighter and you know that scene in Infinity War when Wanda shows up to the battle and Okoye is like _'where was she this entire time????'_ Sinclair is like that and immediately adopts her and offers her every Mandalorian technology ever to come hang out and teach his students how to fly like that  
> \- After a few years, Monty also starts dating Harper and he and Harper and Miller are the _coolest parents ever_ and lil Jordan Green doesn't even know it. He grows up with a heart of gold and the ability to hotwire a speeder in under 20 seconds. Grandpa Miller is impressed and conflicted about it.  
> \- Remember when Bellamy impeached Chancellor Titus like 15 chapters ago? After season 6 started I came SO CLOSE to writing a scene in this epilogue where Bellamy meets the new Chancellor and it's Russell Lightbourne and he thanks Bellamy for kicking the hornets' nest + getting him elected and the Imperial March plays softly in the background but then I was like, nah, these kids deserve the happy ending Kim Shumway doesn't want to give them. So the galaxy is totally saved, there is no more overwhelming evil, and everyone is _fine_. I am generally not a fan of 'everyone has kids now and all is well' endings, but honestly, I think this is what Clarke & Bellamy want, both in this au and in canon. THEY DESERVE THE SOFT EPILOGUE, YOU HEAR ME???? _*shakes fist at Jroth*_  
>  \- lastly, a fun fact: the bedroom Clarke wakes up in at the end is meant to be the same one that she had a Force vision of Bellamy in during her Trials in chapter 15. In the vision she looked around and was like, "too happy, seems fake". Jokes on you Clarke, it was your future, you're gonna be safe and you're gonna like it.
> 
> A song that I regularly return to for comfort and for Bellarke inspiration is [In Our Bedroom After The War](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyP_jjv_udQ), by Stars. I think it's about someone adjusting to a mundane, peaceful life after trauma and trying to sort out reality. It starts off slow and gentle, but the notes slowly get more discordant and jarring, so subtly that you can't pinpoint where it starts. I listen to it on repeat and I'm always a little taken aback when it starts again and it's gentle again. Part of me hesitates to list it as a major inspiration for this story, because I think I've written a genuinely happy epilogue for Clarke and Bellamy, where those last discordant notes don't fit. But if you're not there yet with your healing, if it might comfort you the way it comforts me, I figure it's worth sharing. May we all reach a point in our lives where we have sunlit gardens, democracy, and Star Wars' greatest lesson: hope.
> 
> Thanks to Jess/thefangirlingbarista for encouraging this fic since it was just the vague concept of Clarke + a lightsaber, and thanks to everyone else who encouraged me to finish my goddamn edits. Special shoutouts to julibernardo and lightyears for especially insightful comments that made me make wild faces on public transit, carrieeve for almost always being the first person to comment and reassure me this wasn't trash, and pepperish for volunteering to read this epilogue and let me know if it was happy enough. **This story was a huge labour of love. If you deem it worthy, please comment and/or reblog[its accompanying post on tumblr](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/post/186980766690/kindclaws-luminous-beings-in-a-galaxy-far-far) so my brain can produce additional dopamine and keep writing.** Additionally, you can check out the ['lbcutscenes' tag](https://kindclaws.tumblr.com/tagged/lbcutscenes) on my tumblr for content that didn't make it to the final draft, including a version of the first scene in this epilogue from Raven's pov.
> 
> Thanks guys. <3


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